


Rosa Felicia

by SilentAuror



Series: The Book of Silence/Rosa Felicia [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Coming-of-age, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, First Time, Identity, Loss of Virginity, M/M, long talks, mary morstan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 01:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15232818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: Rose Watson-Holmes is eighteen and in her first year of university studying Food Science & Nutrition when events erupt in her life that force her to learn some things about her family's history never previously revealed to her. A coming-of-age story.





	Rosa Felicia

**Rosa Felicia**

 

She shuts the front door behind her and the noise of Baker Street disappears. The front hall smells familiarly musty, and she smiles and starts up the stairs. If Father is home, he’ll have already deduced that it’s her, plus she did text to say she was coming. 

She doesn’t knock when she reaches the top of the stairs; she knows she doesn’t need to. They’re in the kitchen, talking or possibly arguing over something, but they both turn around, their faces lighting up in unison when she goes in. 

“Rose!” Dad exclaims. He puts the spoon he’s holding down and comes over to hug her, Father following close on his heels. It ends up being a joint three-way hug, both of them kissing her hair and she squeezes them tightly. It’s only been a week or so, but it’s always nice to see them. 

“Hello, you two,” she says affectionately. “What’s going on?” 

Father’s eyes glimmer with humour. “Your father is struggling with the intricacies of the courgette,” he explains. 

Dad glares at him without heat. “I am not struggling,” he insists. “You just cut it wrong.” 

Rose feels her eyebrows lift. “Are you actually using the spiraliser I got you?” She’s honestly shocked; her parents eat like pigs and never put on a bit of weight, though she’s told them enough about nutrition by now that they should know better. 

“Trying, yes,” Father says dryly. He looks faintly disgusted. “Are you really certain you’d prefer this to Chinese?” 

“Yes,” Rose says firmly. “Besides, I want to see your faces when you try it.” 

Father looks at Dad. “She really might not,” he says, and Dad begins to laugh. He pats Father on the shoulder. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “If you’re still hungry after, we’ll order Chinese. Meanwhile, come and show us how to work this thing.” This is to her, so Rose puts her book bag down on the coffee table and goes into the kitchen with them. 

The problem is immediately clear: whoever cut the courgette cut it on an angle. “Look,” she says, picking it up. “You’ve got to cut it so that it’s flat to the blade.” She slices off the end and fits the courgette to the spiraliser and begins to turn it. After a moment or two, both of her fathers’ eyes watching intently, she holds it up to show the ‘noodles’ dangling successfully from the bottom end. “See? Easy-peasy.” 

Dad elbows Father. “Told you,” he says. 

“Don’t say ‘easy-peasy’,” Father complains. “You know I hate that.” 

“Sorry,” Rose says, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. “I forgot.” 

He smiles at her with a minute shake of his head that says that all is fine. “How’s school? Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.” 

Father makes the best tea of anyone she knows. Rose obeys gladly, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. The table is actually cleared today, no apparatus set up. “It’s fine,” she says. “No experiment on right now?” 

Father glances back over his shoulder at her. “Your dad made me wrap it up so that we could clear the table.” 

“So that _I_ could clear the table,” Dad says from the counter, frowning at the courgette. “How many of these should I do, by the way?” 

“About five, with the way you two eat,” Rose tells him dryly. “What are we having with it?” 

“Italian sausage with a tomato sauce,” Dad says. “With spinach and parmesan and that. Lots of garlic. You know.” 

“And fennel,” Father adds. “We can’t forget that. And fresh basil.” 

“Sounds good,” Rose approves. “I got my food microbiology paper back yesterday.” 

Father’s eyes glint. “Oh?” he says. “And?” 

“I got a ninety-four percent on it,” Rose tells him. “Thanks again for your books!” 

“Of course,” Father says, smiling at her. “Well done!” 

Dad turns around and beams at her, too. “That’s my girl! What did you write it on, again?” 

“Listeria monocytogenes in food preparation,” Rose says. “Bit of lab work, but mostly research.” 

“Good topic,” Father says approvingly. “I trust none of the research was done on our kitchen.” 

“Of course not,” Rose says airily. “I know you always sterilise everything after your experiments. And I won’t check the bottom shelf of the fridge.” 

Dad laughs. “Probably wise,” he says. “I’ve stopped even looking down there.” 

Father asks a little more about her paper, so they chat about it until the kettle boils. Father gets up and sets about making tea. He pours everyone a cup, then goes over to the counter to take over the cooking. “That looks good,” he tells Dad, lowering his voice a little, as he so often does when speaking to him, an arm cradling both Dad’s good shoulder and bad. He stoops a little and presses a kiss to Dad’s cheek. “Would you like me to make the sauce? You can sit down and drink your tea.” 

Dad looks at him for a moment, smiling, then nods. “All right, for a minute or two,” he agrees. He leans over and kisses Father on the lips, just briefly, and Rose sees Father’s fingers squeeze around Dad’s good shoulder. “Thanks,” Dad adds, and they smile into each other’s eyes for a moment. 

She hides her smile. Sometimes they still act like it’s still brand new, and it’s rather sweet. She knows it took them very a long time to get together, and sometimes they still seem to marvel at it, that they have each other. She’s seen other people’s parents and still thinks with pride that she’s never seen any who appear to love each other as deeply as her fathers do. They’re so good about taking turns with things like the cooking, too, and when she’s there, they’re careful not to hog her from each other. Dad’s face is still filled with affection when he comes over and sits down across from her, picking up his cup of tea and blowing on it. Rose smiles at him. “Letting the master chef take over?” she teases. Dad’s a perfectly good cook, but Father is the real expert and they all know it. 

“Hell yes,” Dad says frankly, and she and Father both laugh. 

Rose sips her tea. It’s good, some kind of blend of black teas: Assam and a hint of lapsang souchong, just enough to make it smoky. “Got a case on right now?” she asks. 

Dad shakes his head. “No, we’re between them right now. We just wrapped up a rather grisly triple homicide yesterday, so today we took things easy.” 

Rose wrinkles her nose. “Don’t tell me about it, then.” 

“I won’t. How’s the flat?” Dad asks, changing the subject, as he always does. 

“It’s fine. It’s good. Small, but good.” It’s true: her little studio on Greenwich Church Street is perfection. It’s tiny, but she doesn’t need much space. It’s above a rather good restaurant, perfect for greasy pub food when she lets herself eat that way, and close to the market and a ten-minute walk from school, the University of Greenwich, where she’s in the second year of her degree in food science. Rose thinks of something. “The kitchen tap still drips. I called the landlord and he said it’s probably a loose washer. He’s supposed to be coming by to fix it sometime.” 

Dad frowns. “All right, well, if he doesn’t, let us know and we’ll come over and see what we can do.” 

Father snorts gently from the counter where he’s mincing garlic. “Right, because either of us knows anything about plumbing,” he says. “No, by now Mycroft probably knows about the situation – you know he probably monitors your phone calls – and has a professional renovations company on standby in case your landlord doesn’t come through.” 

Rose sighs. “I thought you got him to agree not to interfere.” 

Father’s shoulders shrug. “Well, he hasn’t yet,” he points out. “I’m just saying.” 

Dad meets her eyes, sipping his tea. “He means well, but I know,” he tells her. “It’s an adjustment for all of us, you know. Trying to let you actually grow up.” 

“Just try and stop me,” Rose flashes, but she’s not really upset. Uncle Mycroft can be incredibly overbearing, but she knows he does it because he loves her. Or something along those lines. He fusses too much, is all. It _was_ a bit of an argument, persuading everyone that she would rather be on her own for her first year of university. Well – second year, really, but she’s doing second year work in her first actual year, is all, thanks to Gran’s drilling and extra course work. ‘Everyone’ is the family: Gran and Grandad, Dad and Father, and then there’s Uncle Mycroft, and Harry and Aunt Carolyn. Harry’s never let Rose call her ‘aunt’; says it’s too much a part of the patriarchy for her, and Rose rather likes that. She grew up with Gran and Grandad just outside the village of Hardwicke, close to Gloucester, in a stone cottage with a brook running across the bottom of the yard and the River Severn close by, where Grandad taught her to swim and fish and canoe. They bought her a kayak when she turned sixteen, too, which was perfect: she could be on her own and kayak alongside their canoe. Sometimes they’d go for picnics on the weekends. She went to the local primary school, then to Severn Vale High School, with her education heavily supplemented by Gran’s extra reading and home courses. Every other weekend was always reserved for London and her fathers, though. This has been a second home for as long as she can remember. 

They’ve told her about it, about the early days, Dad’s tumultuous and brief marriage to her mother, but Rose doesn’t remember any of it. Home was always Gran and Grandad’s house in Gloucestershire, and Dad and Father are the only parents she’s ever known. It was like having four, really: Gran is the one she’d rather not tell about getting into trouble of some kind, though the disappointment in Grandad’s gentle eyes would be worse than Gran’s sometimes-sharp tongue. Father would be more likely to laugh, and Dad wouldn’t care. Uncle Mycroft, on the other hand, might overreact and send in a SWAT team. But despite, or possibly because of all of these parental units, it’s been a very happy eighteen years so far. She can recognise that she’s been indulged but not spoiled, urged to excel but never pushed beyond her limits, given advice but been left to make her own judgements and decisions. There have been some hard and fast rules, but there’s also been a lot of freedom. 

She’s travelled a fair bit, too. A highlight was when Father and Dad took her to Paris when she turned twelve, though there were always other trips before that, too, mainly around England. Father said they’d been waiting until she was old enough to appreciate the experience of a new country and culture, and that it would be a good opportunity to try out her school French. They’d stayed in some gloriously luxurious hotel where she’d had her own bedroom in their suite and they’d spent a week seeing the sights and eating baguettes and pastries and delicate French food. They’d shopped until Dad complained of boredom, and walked until everyone’s feet hurt, and when she went back to school, everyone was envious of her new clothes. It was fantastic. When she left school, they took a big family trip with Gran and Grandad, too, and went to Italy, touring vineyards and drinking too much wine and eating big, family-style meals with the locals, and that was great, too. Harry and Carolyn took her with them to New York last year, too, so she knows she’s been lucky. It’s been enough of an argument to get them – Uncle Mycroft in particular – to not stick her in some enormous flat in Belgravia or something, and allow her to live in Greenwich, close to school, and in a reasonable sort of flat. It’s enough of a luxury not to have half a dozen flatmates like most of her friends. Dad and Father pay her tuition, which they rather insisted on, and Gran and Grandad cover the rent and give her a generous monthly allowance meant to handle her other expenses, which it does easily. She would have refused this part and got a part-time job around uni or something, but Gran’s eyes watered a little as she talked about Aunt Eurus and the fund they’d started for her. 

“We had one for each of our children,” she’d said sadly. She never talked about Aunt Eurus much. Rose had never met her; Uncle Mycroft, Father, and Dad all forbade it, and she hadn’t tried to argue for once. Aunt Eurus committed suicide rather suddenly one day when Rose was fourteen, and she remembers it hitting Father particularly hard. He used to visit her sometimes and was always a bit withdrawn when he came back. He and Dad rarely talked about it in front of her, but she remembers Dad once asking Father in a low voice if Eurus had made any progress, and Father responding tiredly, talking about how and what Eurus had played that day. She didn’t speak, apparently, hadn’t since the whole ‘Incident’, as Dad darkly refers to it. Father knew she wasn’t making progress and it depressed him. But the suicide was still a shock. Gran had spent a week in bed, and Grandad told Rose that she was reliving the entire loss of Eurus as a child. It passed relatively quickly, though, both of them grieving but back to their usual selves not long after. When Gran told Rose about the three trust funds they’d set up from the insurance money they received from the house fire in Kent, she’d felt as though she couldn’t take it. 

“But – that was for your daughter,” she’d said, her stomach twisting a little. 

Gran had covered her hand with her own. “And you’re our granddaughter, the one we thought we’d never have,” she’d said gently. “It’s not doing anything but collecting interest. You know we don’t need it. And your fathers would insist on paying for your expenses if we didn’t, anyway. You know that. Let us put this money to a better use. It was never going to benefit Eurus, so it might as well benefit you.” 

She’d hugged Gran then and accepted it, and two months later, they’d moved her to London. She still goes back most weekends, though. She knows how much they miss her. And it’s nice to be closer to Dad and Father, too, nice to be able to come by on a Thursday night and have dinner with them, peruse their library for useful books – Father in particular has a library that could rival the university’s – and just to spend time with them. Which reminds her of something, the reason why she wanted to come tonight. 

“By the way,” she says casually, taking another sip of her tea, “I’ve got something to tell you. Don’t anyone panic, though.” 

Dad’s shoulders immediately tense, and Father turns around with a look of alarm on his face, the knife he was chopping garlic with still in his hand. “What’s that, then?” Dad asks, trying hard to sound casual and failing completely. 

Rose wants to laugh. “Er, I thought I said _not_ to panic,” she tries, but neither of them relaxes, though they do exchange an uneasy look. “I’ve just… started seeing someone. A boy,” she clarifies. They don’t look any more reassured by that. “His name is Chris.” 

“Chris,” Father repeats immediately, sounding as though he’s taken an instant dislike to him based on his name alone. 

“Who is he?” Dad asks, still trying hard to sound like he’s not interrogating her and failing again. 

“Just someone from my biochemistry class,” Rose assures them. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to marry him or anything. Just – date him. You know.” 

They exchange another look. Dad’s shoulders are still stiff and he clears his throat. “How long has this been going on, then?” 

“Not long,” Rose says. “A week, maybe. We had a coffee on Monday after class and we studied for the midterm together on Wednesday. Yesterday, I mean. We’re maybe going to get together on the weekend, too.” 

“Not going home this weekend?” Dad asks, his brows rising. His arms are crossed over his chest. 

Father glances at him, then goes over and puts both hands on Dad’s shoulders, his long fingers massaging a little. “I’m sure they would understand if you wanted to stay in the city,” he says, suddenly seeming to change his tune. 

Rose throws him a grateful look. “I was just there last weekend,” she says. “I have two more midterms next week, so I thought I would stay put. Though the train _is_ great for studying.” 

Dad’s shoulders finally relax a little. “But you have time for a date?” he asks, though he’s visibly bristling less. 

“Well, I’ve got to live sometime, haven’t I?” Rose says, and it comes out a little more defiantly than she meant it to. 

Father bends so far that he’s almost looking at Dad upside down, kissing him on the forehead. “Quite right,” he says briskly, and goes back to the range, giving the sausage he’s cooking a good stir. Without waiting for Dad to give in, he adds, to her, “You’re old enough to use your brain and be sensible. We trust that you’ll apply the same rationale and logic to this as you do with everything else. None of this ‘love is blind’ nonsense.” 

“Of course,” Rose says. 

Dad gives her a gruff smile. “That, and you’ll follow your gut and use your best judgement,” he adds. He reaches over and squeezes her wrist. “Sorry, Rosebud. It’s just my nature.” 

“It’s okay,” Rose tells him, smiling. “He’s nice, really. Smart, too. He’s one of the top students in my class.” 

Father gives a derisive snort. “Probably not half as smart as you, but all right,” he says. 

“No, he really is,” Rose insists. “He got the highest mark in the class on the essay, and he’ll probably top me on the midterm, too.”

“What did he get on the essay?” Dad wants to know. 

“Ninety-four point five,” Rose says, suddenly grinning. “He only _just_ beat me.” 

Dad grins back. “Next time, you’ll beat him.” 

“Maybe.” Rose finishes her tea. “What are you two up to this weekend?” 

“Oh, not too much,” Dad says, leaning back and stretching, then reaching for the teapot and refilling her cup without asking. “Probably going to visit Mrs Hudson on Sunday afternoon.” 

“Dear old thing,” Rose says fondly. “Does she still know who you are?” 

“Me, not really, but Sherlock, yes,” Dad tells her. “He just does his best impression of how he was when she first met him – you know, shouts ‘Dull!’ every so often, and then she remembers him again.”

Father chuckles from the range, scraping his garlic and onions into the pan with the sausage. “For ninety-two, she’s doing pretty well, you have to admit.” 

“True,” Dad says. He looks over at Father. “How’s your tea? Do with a refill?” 

“Oh. I forgot about it. It’s probably cold by now,” Father says, not sounding as though he cares particularly, but Dad gets up and goes to dump out the first cup and refill it, scooping a heart-stopping amount of sugar into the cup along with a generous splash of milk, the way Father likes it, and Rose bites her tongue and doesn’t comment on the toxicity of the sugar. Father definitely knows, anyway, and it’s certainly better than some of the things he’s alluded at from his past. He taps his cooking spoon on the side of the pan now and studies the heap of zucchini noodles on the cutting board. “Rosaceae, you’d best come and advise me on how long to cook these things,” he says. 

Rose laughs and gets up. Father has an endless list of scientific rose and rose hybrid classification nicknames for her, and knows that he fully expects her to recognise each one he uses. “That’s a bit generic,” she teases, taking the cooking spoon from him. “Just the family name? Not a species?” 

Father smirks at her. “Wasn’t sure you’d recognise it apart from the genus,” he says. “I should have known better.” 

“Yes, you should,” Rose says, dimpling at him. She studies the sauce. “Is this about done?” 

“No, I still have to add the parmesan and the spinach,” Father says. “Why?” 

“You can put the zoodles in as soon as the sauce is ready, then just cook it all for about the same time you’d cook spinach down,” she tells him. 

Father groans. “I am _not_ calling them _zoodles_ ,” he says witheringly. “That’s a step too far. I’ll eat them – once, at least – but I refuse to call them that. Does that mean I should put the spinach in at the same time?” 

He’s already spooning fresh parmesan into the sauce, so Rose nods. “Sure, yeah. That could work.” 

Dad comes over, peering over her shoulder. “Should I give that basil a chop, then?” 

“Please,” Father says, and together the three of them finish off the cooking, then sit down to eat it, she and Dad setting the table hastily as Father transfers the contents of the pan to a big serving bowl. 

Father cautiously admits that it’s edible, and proceeds to eat a ridiculous amount of it. Dad openly states that it’s good, though that he’s not ready to give up on real pasta just yet. Rose smiles to herself and sips her glass of chardonnay and feels tremendously content. It’s good to be here with them. She could have lived with them, she knows. It would have been all right. It would have been fine. It just seemed like it was time to try out being on her own, though. She’s eighteen, after all. Dad and Father were both on their own at her age, and she likes having her own space. Her old room upstairs is still exactly as she left it, there whenever she wants it, and Mrs Hudson’s grand-nephew is renting 221A downstairs. They would never change any of that. She also knows that they’re a solid unit, the two of them, a bit insular and very much absorbed in their work and in each other. It’s not that three would ever be a crowd – they love having her here and she knows it down to her bones, without doubt. Yet she can also sense that they shift, deliberately opening themselves to her when she’s there. It wouldn’t be an imposition as such – on the contrary, she knows they were a bit disappointed when she insisted that she’d rather have her own place, and yet she also senses that it’s better like this, anyway. For everyone. One of Dad’s ironclad rules is that they don’t talk about their cases with her. He’s never explained why, but she knows that murders can be ugly and assumes that he just doesn’t want her thinking about the gory details or something along those lines. During the weekends she’s always spent here, they’ve always deliberately avoided or suspended their cases, sometimes letting Uncle Greg stew without their help, stubbornly refusing to go until the weekend was over, but if she were here all the time, they would have to change that. She knows that Father does some work in Molly Hooper’s lab, but he also does a lot of his own testing right here in the kitchen, though never in front of her. That would have to change, too. He’s shown her other things, let her watch the full cycle of mitosis through his microscope, let her examine strands of her own hair and shown her how to use his things. Dad’s also shown her his medical equipment and last year he took her to the Royal London to try having an MRI and see her own brain activity being scanned. They’d all done it, comparing their results as Dad talked to the specialist, an old friend from his training days at St. Bart’s. They’ve let her in, at least partway. Or – no, that’s not it, she thinks, absentmindedly plucking sweet red grapes off their stem. There’s no doubt that she’s all the way in when it comes to their hearts, but they’ve held a certain amount of their professional lives away from her. To protect her youthful sensitivities, she assumes, but they’ve never really talked about it. And it’s fine. She sees them in the papers and knows how important their work is. And they’ve made it clear that all of their knowledge and resources are open to her, along with their love and care and attention, and it’s more than enough. 

Later, after they’ve finished a board game which Dad won (Father complains that he must have cheated), Rose hugs them both and they come downstairs with her to flag down a taxi. 

“Make sure he stops right in front of your building,” Dad says. 

“Of course,” Rose says, waving this off. 

“Can’t be too careful,” Father reminds her. “Text us when you’re inside.” 

This is the permanent routine, has been since she was old enough to go out with her London friends on weekends when she was fourteen or so. She agrees and gets into the taxi, and they wave her off from the kerb, their arms around each other’s waists. 

“Where to, luv?” the cabbie asks, so Rose gives him the address of her small flat and settles back against the seat cushions for the twenty-minute ride back across the city. 

*** 

Saturday evening comes and Rose finally allows herself to push her books aside and be excited about her date. She’s studied all day and last night, too, so she thinks she can permit herself the evening off. She tries on eight different outfits before choosing something, trying hard to look like she’s _not_ trying too hard, then sets about dealing with her face and hair. 

Her reflection in the mirror is rather serious, but generally speaking, she’s more or less pleased: she’s got Dad’s sandy-blond hair (though his is fully silver now; has been for most of her life) and his dark-blue eyes, too, though hers are bigger than his. Her mouth is small, like a rosebud Gran often says fondly. It’s not like Dad’s thinner-lipped smile, which can only mean that she got it from her mother. They’ve always been careful talking about her: all of them, Gran and Granddad, Dad and Father. She asked Harry something once, and Harry only snorted and said that Dad was better off with Father, in spite of her initial doubts on that score. Aunt Carolyn had sent Harry a warning look, though, and Harry had shut up. Rose assumes there must have been some sort of family conclave banning her mother as a topic of conversation. She’s a little curious, but they’ve told her the basics. Her mother is more of a concept than a real person to her; for Rose, her parents are Dad and Father and she’s always been content with that. Her hair is moderately thick and wavy, cut to layer just above her slender shoulders, parted on the left side and usually tucked behind one ear. She leans forward, applying eyeliner and mascara, then stands back to survey the result critically. It’s good, or so she hopes. She’s moderately pretty, she generally thinks. There are prettier girls and plainer ones. She’s doing fine. 

She does hope that Chris thinks she’s pretty, though. She was flattered when he first talked to her, even more so when he asked if she wanted to study together, then coffee. Now it’s dinner and it feels like a big step up. She’s had boyfriends before, back at home in Hardwicke or nearby, but she doesn’t think she’s ever been in love. Not so far, at least. But Chris puts butterflies in her stomach and makes her feel flustered. He’s intelligent, enough that Father would be impressed, she thinks, and very attractive. He’s tall and slim, with dark hair that falls into equally dark eyes and a slightly enigmatic air to him, as though he’s always thinking more than he’s letting on. 

She picks up her coat and purse and goes down to walk to the restaurant where they’re meeting. Chris asked if she likes sushi, which she does, so he suggested a restaurant close to school. It’s a short walk, under ten minutes, and she arrives precisely on time. Dad specifically told her to be two to five minutes late, which Father said was rubbish, and she ended up going with Father’s take on that. Of course, Father is also somewhat famous for not respecting proposed meeting times, himself, so there’s also that. Nevertheless, she’s on time, and moreover, Chris is already there, smiling at her from a table for two. Rose smiles back, feeling slightly relieved that he’s there and didn’t forget or anything, though he did just confirm it earlier in the afternoon. She goes quickly over and sits down, hanging her coat over the back of her chair. 

They chat a bit, then decide they should figure out what they want to eat. “It’s on me, of course,” Chris says casually, closing his menu. 

Rose tries to protest. “You don’t have to,” she says. “It’s a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it?” 

He shrugs. “Call me old-fashioned, then. I think it’s a bit more romantic. Chivalry isn’t completely dead, after all.” 

He’s smiling, but Rose still hesitates. It goes against the grain completely to let him pay. Back at home, she always paid for herself when she went on dates with boys, but maybe this is more adult? “Okay,” she says, but there’s doubt in her face and she feels a bit tense. 

Chris clearly hears the doubt. He leans forward and puts his hand on her wrist. “I just want to treat you,” he says, his voice gentle. “Do this properly.” 

Rose decides not to say that propriety has nothing to do with sociological gender roles and dating norms and makes herself relax her shoulders. “Okay,” she says again, giving in. A moment later she adds, “Thanks, then.” 

Chris smiles again, and it makes her chest flutter, the butterflies returning in force. It’s not that he makes her nervous per se; it’s just that he’s really attractive and this feels a lot more important than their coffee next to the campus did. It’s a step up. He changes the subject to the upcoming exam and Rose relaxes even more, the conversation turning easy, barely skipping a beat when the server comes to take their order. They drink a bottle of white wine and eat through the sushi they ordered and talk the entire while. 

“So why the hyphenation?” Chris asks. “Do you come from one of those posh type families?” 

Rose realises after half a second that he’s talking about her last name. “What? Oh – no, it’s not a tradition at all. As far as I know, I’m the only Watson-Holmes around.” He looks confused, so she explains. “We don’t actually what my biological mother’s real last name was, and my father – my biological one – married my other father when I was still a baby. They’ve been together ever since, and it made sense to them to change my name when my other father adopted me, on their wedding day. Before that, I was Rosamunde Mary Watson, and for whatever reason, they changed the whole thing. They called me Rosie when I was a baby, so they kept that, mostly. The full thing is Rose Katherine Watson-Holmes now.” 

“Holmes,” Chris repeats, staring at her. 

Rose smiles, recognising the moment. Father is pretty famous, after all. “Yes. Sherlock Holmes is my father. John Watson is my dad. My biological father.” 

Chris nods, looking impressed. “Wow,” he says. “I’ve read essays and articles by your – by Sherlock Holmes. He’s pioneered a ton of stuff in the forensic field.” 

She nods, too. “Yup. He knows what he’s talking about, that’s for sure. I use his library for most of my papers.”

Chris picks up another piece of avocado roll with his chopsticks and eats it, then frowns. “I thought you said you grew up in the country, though.” 

“Not the country, exactly, but it’s pretty tiny, yeah,” Rose admits. “Yeah: I was raised mostly by my grandparents. Father’s parents. My parents were always busy with their work, obviously, and didn’t want me to be in any danger since they deal with a lot of criminals and such. I was better off with my grandparents. Plus, my Gran is pretty brilliant, herself. Are you taking calculus with Professor Byrne?” 

Chris nods, watching her. “Yeah, Thursday afternoons. Why?” 

“My Gran wrote one of the texts for that course,” Rose explains. “So I got a lot of tutoring from her, too. It’s why I’m doing second year work this year.” She remembers her food then and lifts a piece of tamago to her mouth. 

“I see,” Chris says thoughtfully. He takes a sip of his wine. “But you didn’t mind? Living away from your fathers like that?” 

“Not at all,” Rose assures him. “I love the village and I love my grandparents. And I always spent every other weekend with my parents here in the city, anyway.” 

This raises his eyebrows. “So if you weren’t going to be safe living there all the time, what kept you safe when you visited?” 

Rose pauses. “I don’t know. I always was, though. It was never an issue. They never worked on cases while I was there, and one thing my Dad has always been pretty firm about is that they refuse to discuss their work with me, apart from the basics. They’ll tell me that they just had a homicide in Lewisham or something, but they won’t tell me about it. Sometimes the investigation is in the papers, though, so I know what it is. But usually they keep that pretty separate from the time we all spend together.” 

Chris leans forward, his eyes glinting a little. “And now?” he asks. “With you living all on your own here? Who keeps you safe now?” 

Rose feels her brows rise. “I’m eighteen,” she says coolly. “Do I need to be ‘kept safe’? I’m pretty sure I can take care of myself.” 

She didn’t mean to bristle, but it happens anyway. Chris smiles at her. “Of course you can,” he says warmly. “I just wondered if there was a special arrangement now or something. You don’t have a bodyguard trailing you twenty-four seven, like a celebrity?” 

He’s teasing. Rose tells herself to calm down. “No,” she says. “Of course not.” She changes the subject. “What about you?” she asks. “Where did you grow up?” 

Chris leans back and shrugs. “Oh, nothing fancy,” he says, going back to his sushi. He tells her about his childhood, the family moves, his schooling, his younger brother. He talks and Rose studies his face surreptitiously, liking him more and more. The butterflies are still there. When the bill comes, Chris gives the server his credit card, the way Father always does, with a casual air of authority that she finds more appealing than she maybe should. He signs and then they get up and put their coats on. It’s November and the air has turned crisp, especially at night. Rose belts her coat around her waist and slips the long strap of her purse over her head, letting the small bag rest against her hip. 

Outside on the pavement, Chris reaches easily for her hand, looking down at her from his loftier height. “Okay?” he asks, and Rose nods, sparkling on the inside and trying to contain it. “Where do you live?” he asks, looking around. “I’ll walk you home.” 

“Greenwich Church Street,” she tells him. “Right around the corner, above the Green Village restaurant.” 

“Oh, that _is_ close,” Chris comments. “Nice and close to school, too. Have you got flatmates?” 

She shakes her head. “No, it’s just me. You?” 

Chris laughs. “I’ve got three. Luckily they’re all pretty nice. Fairly clean, too, which is important. It’s one other bloke and two girls. It’s pretty small, but we manage.”

“Where is it?” Rose asks, though she’s more conscious of the warmth of his fingers around hers than she is of the conversation. 

“Brookhill Road, over in Woolwich,” Chris tells her. “It’s not bad. Not as nice as this, but pretty student-y, and not too far.” He stops, looking up. “Is this you?” 

They’re outside the Green Village. Rose nods, turning to face him, trying to tamp down her instinctive shyness – shyness that’s never cropped up during their classes or studying together or their coffee the other day! “Thanks for dinner,” she says, the butterflies churning. 

Chris moves a little closer, looking down into her eyes. There are still a good number of people on the pavement, but she’s only aware of him. “It was my pleasure,” he says softly. “And this walk was much too short. Tell you what – after the exam on Monday, let’s go for a proper walk. Is that – I don’t know, too much too soon?” 

“Not at all,” Rose tells him warmly, her entire being thrilling at this. He must like her a lot, to already be requesting another date this soon!

He smiles, his dark eyes still on hers. “Good night, then.” 

Rose hesitates, looking up at him, and Chris’s face comes closer. He kisses her on the lips, apparently not caring about the passers-by. She knows she doesn’t. His lips are warm and she kisses back. It’s not her first kiss by a long shot, but it leaves her tingling from head to toe with awareness of him, pulled magnetically into his orbit. It’s a good kiss, strong and sweet and lasting for several long, sweet moments, and then it’s over. “Good night,” Rose says, opening her eyes and blinking up at him. 

Chris smiles, then puts his hands in his coat pockets. “See you on Monday, if we don’t text sooner. Bye!” 

“Bye!” Rose watches as he turns and strides off in the direction of the train station, back the way they came. She takes out her keys and lets herself into the building, jogs up the stairs, and jumps about in pure glee. He kissed her! And he wants to see her again! She throws herself onto her bed, smiling dreamily up at the ceiling and trying to commit every moment of the date to her memory to gloat over it, over every word he said. 

*** 

Monday’s walk is everything Rose hoped it might be. Chris suggested they study together, then go for a walk to relax, so they did, wandering down the wharfs for a long way. It was a beautiful day, cool but sunny, and when they found a bench to sit down on and watch the ships for awhile, Rose was supremely conscious of Chris’s warmth beside her. They’d been talking the whole time, and somehow that turned rather naturally into kissing again, which was exactly what she’d wanted. By the time they made their way back to the campus, Chris had officially become her boyfriend and they had dinner plans again for Thursday. Not Friday, she’d said, because she was going home to spend the weekend with Gran and Granddad, and Chris had accepted this easily. 

It’s been three weeks since it started now, and the thick of the December finals are upon her. Rose studies around the clock, sometimes at Baker Street, just because Father’s library is so handy and sometimes it’s nice to get a bit of physical distance from uni. 

“So when are we going to meet this Prince Charming?” Dad wants to know, his voice teasing as he stirs something in a pan. 

Rose lifts her head from where it’s bent over their desk, one of Father’s microbial biology tomes open under her fingers. “You want to meet him?” she asks, curious. 

Dad shrugs and scraps something from a cutting board into the pan. “Could be nice,” he says offhandedly. “No pressure, though.” He stirs some more, then goes back to his chopping. “Does he know about us?” 

“Yes, I told him on our first proper date,” Rose says. “He was impressed. He’s read a bunch of Father’s articles, apparently.” 

The door downstairs opens and closes again. “Speak of the devil,” Dad says, rather fondly. “Well. That’s good. He ought to be impressed. No qualms about the whole two fathers bit, then?” 

“Not at all,” Rose assures him firmly. She knows that they’ve always been a touch self-conscious about this – never when it’s to do with only the two of them, oddly, only when in connection to her. They’ve never wanted it to cause problems for her, and it never has. There’s been the odd comment here or there, perhaps, but nothing severe. 

Father reaches the top of the stairs and spots her at once, his face breaking into a sunny beam. “Well, hello!” he says pleasantly. “What brings you here?” 

“Just studying,” Rose says, smiling back. “I’ve borrowed this.” She holds up the book for his inspection. 

Father’s eyes spark. “Ah!” he says. “A good choice, though he’s an idiot when it comes to autophagy and the creation of new organelles.” 

Dad ambles over from the kitchen. “Don’t I get a hello?” he wants to know. 

Father’s eyes glint now and he turns with a swirl of his much-worn wool coat and sweeps Dad into his arms, bending over him theatrically and kissing him full on the mouth right in front of her. Dad giggles in his high-pitched laugh and makes protesting sounds, though Rose notes with a hidden smile that it doesn’t prevent him from kissing back in any way. She likes this; they’ve never tried to hide their love in front of her. Father releases Dad, still bent over him. “Hello,” he says, his voice tremendously affectionate and a little deeper than it was just a moment ago. 

Dad grins up at him. “You’ve probably just put my back out, you tit.” 

“I love you, too,” Father says, grinning back, but he lets Dad up. “What’s that I smell?” 

“Fried rice,” Dad tells him. “Rose won’t eat it, but you will.” 

Father looks at her. “Too many carbs,” Rose says, wrinkling her nose. “A bit of rice is all right, but a whole meal based on it is pure sugar.” 

Father frowns. “But what will you eat, _Rosa persica_?” 

“I’ll find something,” Rose assures him, smiling at the nickname. Father just waits, though, expectantly, so she dutifully shuffles through her mental wikipedia page of rose species. “Er, native to Persia, clearly, small, yellow petals, thrives in deserts?”

“Very good.” Father comes over and tousles her hair approvingly. “Are you writing, or just reading?” 

“Just reading, or I’d show you,” Rose says. She leans back and stretches. “Do you two have active plans for that avocado I spotted in the fruit bowl?” 

“None whatsoever,” Father says. “Help yourself.” 

Rose gets up and goes into the kitchen, slipping an arm around Dad’s waist as he liberally douses their fried rice with soy sauce. “Mind if I take two of those eggs?” she asks, nodding toward the open carton. 

“Go right ahead,” Dad says easily. “Sherlock, this is about ready. Can you set the table?” 

“Already on it,” Father informs him, carrying a stack of newspapers to the recycling bin under the sink. “Wine?”

“Sure. We’ve got a chardonnay in, I think. And that leftover cabernet.” 

“I think white,” Father decides, and comes over to the fridge to find it. 

Rose slices her avocado in half, then forms two nests out of aluminium foil and arranges them in a small baking pan. Next she scoops away a bit of the flesh and cracks an egg into each half. 

Dad glances over with interest. “What are you doing there?” he asks. 

“Baked eggs,” she tells him. “Can you switch on the oven?” Dad hums an affirmative response, and she sprinkles sea salt and pepper onto the eggs and carefully slides the pan into the oven. Next she finds a block of cheddar in the fridge and looks around for the grater. It’s not in the drawer where it usually lives. “Where’s the cheese grater?” 

She turns around just in time to see them exchange a guilty look. Father clears his throat. “Erm, it’s out of commission at the moment. Best just – slice it thin, or something.” 

Rose weighs this, then decides not to ask. “Okay. I’m not going to ask. I’d rather not know that you’ve been grating someone’s kidney on it or something.” 

Father coughs. “Not kidn – ” he begins, but Dad cuts him off with a loud clearing of his throat and Father lapses into silence. 

“Sorry, kiddo,” Dad says swiftly. “We’ll, er, get a new one.” 

“It’s fine,” Rose says, trying not to laugh. 

Father gets up and comes over. “I think we’ve got some leftover ham if you’d like to add that,” he says, a bit too politely, and a bit too obviously trying to change the subject. He opens the fridge again and bends to have a look. “Ah, yes. Here it is. Would you like it?” 

“Sure. Thanks.” Rose takes the ham from him and dices it, slices the cheddar as finely as she can, then pulls out the eggs to add both ingredients. 

“Come sit down. We can start with the salad,” Dad invites, so she goes to join them. 

“Wine?” Father offers, but she declines. 

“Got to keep my head clear,” she says. She starts on her salad. It’s very good, spinach with strawberries and plenty of toasted almonds. 

Dad turns to Father. “Rose was saying that she might permit us to meet this Chris one of these days.” 

“I didn’t say that,” Rose protests. “ _You_ said that!” 

Father looks at Dad, then at her. “ _‘But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, for the winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.’_ Keats, I think.” 

Rose stares at him. “What’s that supposed to mean, about leaving myself on the brier? You don’t want me to be dating or something?” 

“No,” Father says carefully. “Just – for you to be careful. We’re glad that you’re happy so far. As to meeting him, that’s up to you. I’m sure that Mycroft has researched him thoroughly by now.” 

“He’d better leave Chris alone,” Rose cautions them. “None of this scooping him off the street to interrogate him in one of those cars of his!” 

Father exchanges a look with Dad, then says, “I’ll tell him, but you know he’s probably already got a file on Chris.” 

“Please don’t let him scare Chris off,” Rose entreats. “I really like him!” 

Dad reaches over and pats her hand. “I’m sure it will be fine,” he says, with a firmness that seems to be more directed at Father than at her. 

Father subsides. “All right,” he says mildly. He reaches for the big bowl of fried rice and the timer that Rose set for her eggs pings. 

She takes them out of the oven and pokes at them. The yokes have just set: perfect. She lifts them onto her plate, then goes back to join her parents, who are now chatting about the new neighbours and their yappy dog. She shouldn’t get so prickly over Chris; she knows they’re just being cautious. They mean well, and she loves them for it. But still. 

*** 

The December exams are finally over. Rose breathes a sigh of relief as she pushes open the door and out into the crisp, cool, fresh air outside. She takes in lungfuls of it, grateful for the change after the stuffy air of the exam room, and walks slowly in the direction of her small flat. Chris is in another class for cell biology and immunity, so his exam was yesterday morning. At the moment he’s stuck writing a human nutrition final, or else he’d have been waiting for her. It doesn’t matter; they’re having dinner tonight and she wants to unwind and then get ready, anyway. 

Chris. The very thought of him makes her smile. It’s been six weeks now, six wonderful weeks. She finally caved and introduced him to her parents the week before last, just a quick coffee near the campus, and everyone behaved themselves. He hasn’t met Gran and Granddad – that would mean that it’s _really_ serious, and she’s not sure that it is, yet, but it could be. It’s definitely the most serious relationship she’s been in so far. Sometimes she wonders that they actually got any school work done at all, given how much time they’ve spent snogging – snogging, and sometimes a little more, too, though not all the way or anything. They’ve touched a little, usually through their clothes, though sometimes not. Just two nights ago, she was half in Chris’s lap as they kissed, his hands on her bottom, her heart beating so hard he must have felt it in his chest. It’s not that she doesn’t want it to go further, but it would be the first time and she’s just got to be sure. She thinks that the whole concept of virginity is a bit outdated anyway, but still. It counts. It’s something. She leans forward, lining her eyes carefully, and smiles at herself in the mirror in her dimly-lit (poor lighting, not deliberate atmosphere) bedroom. Maybe soon. We’ll see, she tells herself. She applies mascara, then gets up to go and get dressed. 

She arrives at the restaurant at the exact same time as Chris, meeting him on the pavement as she’s about to go in. They’re seated quickly – he made a reservation, as always – and she lets the server take her coat and hang it up somewhere. She bought a new dress just for this and hope he likes it – it’s knee-length, black, made of satin or something imitating it, with a halter neck that buttons at the back, just below the loose knot she’s got her hair in. She’s wearing diamond studs in her ears, ones that Dad scolded Father for having bought her for her eighteenth birthday. No one needs to know that they’re diamonds, but they make her feel sophisticated to be wearing them. She doesn’t wear heels very often but tonight she brought out the pointy, low-heeled black shoes she bought at Harrod’s with Gran for her school leaving ceremony. Her legs are bare, but she took a taxi. Sartoria is in Fitzrovia, not far from Baker Street, and it feels a little odd to be so close to her parents’ place without seeing going to see them. Chris made the reservation for tonight to celebrate the end of their exams, and told her about the celebrity chef and such. She feels a bit hesitant, given that it’s Italian – there’s sure to be a lot of pasta and other carbs on the menu, and while she has told Chris that she’s trying to avoid refined carbs in general, he tends to tease her about it a little. She wonders at that sometimes; he’s in food sciences himself, and has studied the same things she has about the effects of carbohydrates that have had their fibre stripped away, their effects on insulin, leptin, and ghrelin. She’s already decided not to be annoyed about his choice, though: she just wants tonight to be perfect. 

They sit down and Chris immediately notices her dress. “You look beautiful,” he says, smiling across the table at her. “And I’ve never seen you with your hair up like that. It suits you!” 

Rose smiles back at him, warmed by the compliments. “Thanks!” she says. “You clean up pretty well, too!” It’s true, he does. He’s wearing a white dress shirt that she thinks Father would approve of under a perfectly-fitting black jacket with black trousers. They look good together, Rose thinks critically. 

A server comes and gives them menus. As Rose thought, there is a _lot_ of pasta. Oh well. There are always times for making exceptions. She firmly decides not to mention this and successfully manages to skate around it as they discuss antipasti and main courses. She orders burrata in a high grade olive oil, followed by tagliarini with crab, chili, and lemon for her first course and polenta with truffles for the second, and wonders if she’ll be able to eat it all. Chris orders them a bottle of orvieto, and the server takes away the menus with a satisfied air. 

“That’s done with,” Chris says, and somehow it makes them both grin and relax. “So tell me: how was the cell biology exam?” 

Rose relaxes a little more, and everything feels normal again. The conversation takes off, chatting about their exams, how glad they are to be through, plans for the holidays, and this and that. The food is delicious, Rose has to admit. Her entire family have instilled a love of well-made food in her, though each pair or person in their own way. With Gran and Granddad, it’s always been about traditional British cuisine: roast dinners, Yorkshire puddings, Victoria sponge, scones and clotted cream. With Dad and Father, it could be anything from high-end sushi to gourmet Turkish to hole-in-the-wall Indian or Chinese joints, all the way up to the newest (most expensive, naturally) restaurant on the scene. With Harry and Carolyn, it’s more likely to be the trendiest vegan/vegetarian place, though they also love Indian and Thai. And the last time Uncle Mycroft took her out, it was to celebrate leaving school and they went to the Ledbury, whose prices shocked her, but whose food was pretty fantastic. So this is nice. Really nice, she amends, as the last of the wine gets poured into their glasses. She doesn’t drink a lot and can feel it going to her head a little. It’s fine, she tells herself. Exams are over. She can afford to relax her rules a little. She’s got nothing on tomorrow. 

The server comes back and asks anxiously about dessert. The black satin (or whatever it really is) is already feeling uncomfortably tight, but Chris suggests they share something, so she agrees. They order the amaretto tiramisu and savour it when it comes, the cream of the mascarpone rich in her mouth. She finishes her wine and decides not to fight over paying the bill, either. She’s probably got more money than Chris has, but she knows it would be uncouth to point this out. 

He asks for the bill and when the server leaves to fetch it, he leans forward. “I’ve got something for you,” he says, his dark eyes warm. 

Rose feels her eyes widen. “For me! But why?” 

Chris smiles and takes both her hands across the table, not minding the other diners around them. “I know it hasn’t been very long yet, but I just wanted to tell you how glad I am that this is happening, and how special you are to me. It’s not been two months, but now that we’re celebrating the end of the term, I thought it was as good a time as any.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and brings out a small, flat box. “Here,” he says, pushing it across the table to her. 

Rose’s heart is thumping in her chest. Her fingers seem to be a little clumsy with the ribbon holding the box together, but perhaps that’s just the wine. She gets the lid off and finds a bracelet inside, probably rhinestones or maybe cubic zirconias, but beautifully made, clusters of smaller stones surrounding larger ones in a chain. “It’s beautiful,” she says, blinking at it. “I didn’t get you anything!” 

Chris smiles again. “No need,” he tells her gently. “Here.” He motions for her hand, so she holds it out and he fastens the bracelet onto her wrist. “It’s perfect on you. And you’re all the gift I want.” 

Rose feels her lips press together and can’t wait to get out of this restaurant and kiss him again. The server comes back before she can say something along these lines, though, and Chris gives him his card. Another staff person brings their coats and helps Rose into hers, and then they’re finally out on the pavement, their hands joined. 

“Come on,” Chris murmurs, nodding in the direction of Regent Street. “Let’s find somewhere a little less crowded.” 

Rose agrees, her fingers laced into his, and they hurry down New Burlington Street in the direction of Regent as though they’re on a secret mission. They skip over Regent and Chris leads her into a narrow street, almost an alley, just far enough in to take them out of most people’s sight. He turns toward her and Rose pulls his face down to hers. The wine has brought down any reluctance she might have felt about doing this in relative public and she loses herself in the kiss, forgetting about everything but Chris. 

Suddenly, they’re surrounded, or so it seems. Voices are shouting, and they break apart, startled. “Whoa, what’s this?” Chris demands. 

There are four of them, and one’s got a gun, which frightens Rose. “Step away from her,” the one with the gun snarls. 

“Not a chance,” Chris says, his voice gone hard. “What the hell do you want?” 

“Told you, bro, get away from the girl!” 

Rose’s heart is in her mouth. “What do you want with me?” she demands, her voice wild and shaking. 

The gun-wielder sneers at her. “Your dads are one thing, but you’re Mary Morstan’s daughter. D’you have any idea what she did to my country?” 

Rose stares at him, unable to follow what he’s saying. His country – he looks to be from southeastern Asia somewhere, maybe India or Pakistan, but she can’t be sure. His accent is pure East End. “No,” she says, unable to come up with anything other than honesty. She glances up but doesn’t see a CCTV camera in the little street. So much for that hope. 

“Well, I’m about to give you a hint, love,” he sneers, and releases the safety. 

“No, you wont!” Chris snarls, and suddenly his fist is in the gun-toter’s belly. It all happens so quickly that Rose can barely take it in: the one with the gun is on his knees now, the gun in Chris’s hands. “You want trouble?” he demands of the other three, and they raise their hands and stutter out denials. “Good,” Chris says. “Then go. Now!” He glares down at the one who was threatening Rose. “You, too.” He opens something in the gun and lets bullets rain down onto the pavement in front of their attacker’s face. “I’ll keep this,” he says coolly. “Go on, get out of here!” 

The attacker scrambles to his feet and beats a hasty retreat after his friends, in the direction of Regent Street. Chris watches, breathing hard, then whirls around to face her. 

“Oh my God, Rose! Are you all right?” he asks urgently, gripping her by the shoulders. 

All of the emotion hits at once and she nods, but starts to cry at the same time, even as he holds her, the empty gun still in one hand. “The police,” she babbles. “There’s a station close to the restaurant – my Uncle Greg – ”

“Later,” Chris says, cutting into her frantic stream of words. “Let’s get you home!” 

She thinks of her fathers and Baker Street, too, but this makes sense – she just wants to go home. “Okay – a taxi – can we – ”

“Of course,” Chris says, wrapping his arm firmly around her shoulders and making for Regent. “I’ll keep this,” he adds, meaning the gun. “I’ll go to the police in the morning and make a full report, turn this thing in.” He leans over and presses a kiss to her hair, which is slipping out of its loose knot. “You’re okay. Nothing happened, in the end.” He stops, hails a cab, then adds, “Don’t cry, love.” He kisses her again, on the forehead, then helps her into the taxi and gives her address to the driver. 

Inside, she holds his hand tightly but doesn’t say anything, trying to process what her attacker said, first about Dad and Father, then about being Mary Morstan’s daughter. What did he mean, about his country? What did her mother do to him? Suddenly the gaps in her knowledge of her mother and exactly who she was strike her. She knows nothing at all about who her mother was. She’s never really thought about it. Dad’s said that it was a brief, unhappy marriage, that she was the only good thing that came of it, and left it at that. Father’s never said much more. No one has. It’s just a non-topic. Her parents are Dad and Father, and she’s never needed to know any more than that. But now it seems that she needs to ask some questions. 

The taxi arrives and Chris pays. Rose barely notices. The wine is confusing the clarity of her thoughts. “Shall I come up for a bit?” Chris asks. “Or would you rather be on your own?” 

“No – ” The word leaves her mouth instinctively. “The last thing I want right now is to be on my own! Please come up.” 

Chris nods, and this time she leads the way up the darkened staircase, very much aware of his presence there with her, strong and capable and sure. She thinks of the way he beat off her attacker and is suddenly very glad to have him there. She manages the lock, then bolts the door after Chris. There are questions that need answers, but right now this is what she’s got, right in front of her: Chris. He’s standing there, waiting for a cue from her, so she gives it. 

“You’re my hero,” she says, going to him and putting her arms around his back. “Thank you. You saved me.” 

His arms come tightly around her. “I’ll never let anything happen to you,” he vows, his voice low. 

She lifts her face and they kiss, hard. It doesn’t stop the way it usually does, either. Not this time. Somehow they get their coats off and she drops her purse on the floor, and they’re still kissing. Her hands are urgent, pulling at his clothes, and Chris doesn’t object to either his jacket or shirt joining their coats on the floor. His hands are running down over the exposed skin above where her dress ends and hers are caressing the length of his back, her blood hot in her veins. His fingers come up to the button of the halter neck and he makes a questioning sound into her mouth. Rose agrees wholeheartedly, and he unfastens the button and bends to kiss her throat, her upper chest, then as the cool air hits her exposed breasts, he moves lower and takes each one into his mouth. Gently. Lovingly, his arms around her narrow waist. Rose tips her head back, her mouth open, and revels in the intimacy of it, the pleasure of his mouth on her skin, then pulls him back up to kiss him again. It’s got rather unrestrained now. Her hands travel over his arse, pulling him closer, and she can feel him against her, aroused in his trousers. 

He stops, opening his eyes and finding hers. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice a whisper.

The question is obvious and doesn’t need any sort of clarification. She knows what he’s asking. “Yes,” she says, her voice low but firm. 

He kisses her again, his mouth devouring hers, and picks her up and carries her into her bedroom. He’s careful with her dress as he unzips it and removes it all the way, then helps her remove his trousers, too. His erection is plain to see in his grey briefs and her breath catches. She’s never done this before. She’s had boyfriends in school but nothing serious. She’s fooled around a little, but not this. 

“Can I – ?” she asks, grateful to the wine for taking the edge off her shyness, and Chris nods. She touches him through his underwear, feels him grow harder as she does, hard for her, and the thought goes straight to her own knickers. He murmurs the same question and she assents, so they stand there, kissing and touching each other carefully through their underwear. Her bra comes off next, and then the rest of it, too. She’s clad only in her diamond earrings and the bracelet he gave her, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, and he’s bending over her in her bed, fumbling one-handed with a small package. She giggles and helps him with it, and then he’s rolling the condom onto himself and bending to take her small breasts into his mouth again. 

It’s all turning into a wine-edged blur. There’s a lot of breath and heat, wet mouths and needy hands, and then he’s there between her legs, pushing inside, and it’s – he’s big, and she knows she’s got to relax. He’s going slowly and it helps, and at last he’s all the way inside. Rose looks down between them and sees their bodies joined together and it’s rather incredible. She says his name, her voice gone all breathy, and he kisses her again. After a little, he begins to move inside her, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs gripping his sides. The discomfort eases, and he’s starting to make frantic sounds. He makes a questioning one and she isn’t exactly sure what he’s asking, but she agrees and he goes faster still, their bodies slapping together almost embarrassingly, then he makes a loud sound and a spasm travels through his body, then again. He stills for a moment, then pulls out of her, carefully holding the condom in place, then turns away to dispose of it before coming back and stretching his arm out across her body and breathing kisses onto her cheek. 

“You’re amazing,” he tells her, his voice gone drowsy. 

Rose hears herself say something, her breath still coming quickly, her hands stroking the hair of his arm. It seems that he’s going to sleep. She’s not sleepy at all, but the wine is definitely taking its toll and numbing her thoughts. She pulls the blankets over them and listens to Chris’s breath slowing as he slides into sleep. It takes her a much longer time to follow suit, but eventually she sleeps, too. 

*** 

In the morning when she wakes, she’s alone in bed. Last night comes flooding back, both the attack and then after, here at the flat. Chris. Where is he? Concerned, she turns onto her back, propping herself up on her elbows, but then she hears him moving about in her tiny kitchen. The smell of coffee brewing hits her nostrils and after that, something cooking. He’s still here, then. He didn’t leave. The thought makes her smile. 

She thinks of last night, of him inside her, and turns the thought over in her head. Yes. She’s glad it happened. She wanted it to, and it was the right time for it. Her body feels very slightly sore, but with the mostly-good ache of muscles she doesn’t normally use. It feels more awake to her, too, last night’s desire not entirely ebbed out of her body. It’s a strange thing to suddenly be thinking of her body as its own identity, almost: what it wants, how it feels. It’s always just been a part of her. Now it’s somehow taken on something of a life of its own, something not fully known to her or entirely understood. 

Rose hears Chris’s footsteps approaching and instinctively pulls the sheet up over her nudity, though it doesn’t really make any sense. He knocks, though the door is slightly open. “Come in,” she says, smiling at this small courtesy, and he does. 

He’s half-dressed, in his underwear and vest, and he looks very slightly apprehensive, too. “Hi,” he says, shaking his dark hair out of his eyes. “I just came to see if you’re awake. I’m making breakfast.” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Rose tells him, feeling strangely shy in spite of herself. She wants him to come over to her, re-establish their connection somehow, confirm that he wanted what happened last night, too, that he doesn’t regret it. 

As though he heard her thoughts, he does come over, perching himself carefully on the side of her bed and looking down at her. “Good morning,” he says, and reaches for her hand. 

Rose lets him have it and twines her fingers into his. “Hi,” she says, wishing the stupid shyness would go away. Chris bends down to kiss her for a moment, and then it does go away, at least mostly. 

He smooths her mussed hair back from her face, smiling at her. “Last night was incredible,” he says. “You feeling all right?” 

Rose nods. “Perfectly,” she says, and reaches for his face again. He comes obediently, the kiss spinning itself out longer this time, and he shifts down so that he’s lying next to her, his fingers in her hair. It’s wonderful, like being in a cocoon world of just the two of them, Rose thinks dreamily, stroking his back through the fine cotton of his shirt. They kiss again, then again after that, and she feels her newly-awakened body stirring with interest, all of herself seeming to reach for him. She lets her hand rove lower and Chris makes a muffled sound into her mouth, then pulls away. 

“We can’t,” he says. “The eggs will burn.” 

Rose considers this. “Turn the heat off,” she suggests. 

Chris grins. “Done. Come with me.” 

Giggling, she lets herself be pulled naked out of bed and into the kitchen, their fingers tangled together. Chris curses a little and scrapes at the pan. “Are they all right?” she asks, not particularly caring. 

“They should be salvageable,” he says, then turns to her with a gleam in his eyes. They start kissing right there in the kitchen, his shorts and vest rapidly hitting the floor, and then they’re tumbling onto the sofa, still laughing and kissing through it, and he’s hard against her, his cock seeming to seek out the heat of her without specific direction, and Chris has to stop to find another condom, rolling it onto himself even as Rose pulls him back down to her, into her. It’s a very tiny bit painful, but she doesn’t mind. Chris thrusts into her, even more urgently than last night, and it’s good – she’s more relaxed this time and it feels better than it did last night. It’s just starting to collect, building up within her, but then Chris makes a loud sound and stops, his cock pulsing inside her, and after a belated moment she realises that he’s just come. He pulls out of her after a moment, disposes of the condom, then slumps down onto her again, breathing hard. 

This time, her body is still clamouring for it to keep going, but it seems that they’re done. She rubs her legs against his, her hands still tracking over the skin of his back and arse, the want still clanging within her. This happened last night, too, she realises, still breathing hard herself, but not from the strength of any particular climax. She never got there, either last night or just now. Does he not realise? A strand of annoyance plucks within her. It’s not as though he checked, but she doesn’t exactly want to bring it up now! It still felt nice, she reasons with herself. It did. She likes this, likes this intimacy. 

After a moment, Chris lifts his head and grins down at her. “And here I thought I’d do our first morning after the gentlemanly way,” he teases. “Make you breakfast and bring it to you in bed.” 

Rose pushes away the tiny annoyed voice and hugs him. “I just wanted you,” she says, and he kisses her. 

“I can still see about those eggs, though,” he says, so she lets him up to go and do that, staying where she is on the sofa and wrapping a blanket around herself. 

Chris pours her a cup of coffee, adds a splash of milk the way she likes it and brings it over, then arranges two plates of scrambled eggs with mozzarella with slices of orange on the side and they eat together on the sofa, naked and comfortable, much more so than when Rose woke up. After a bit, she manages to pull her thoughts from Chris himself and the subject of last night’s attack comes back to mind. “Are you going to make that police report?” she asks. 

Chris nods. “Yes, of course. As soon as I’m dressed and out of here. I’ll give them the gun, too.” 

Rose shudders a little. “I forgot it was even in here.” 

“Sorry,” he says swiftly. “I was more concerned about getting you home safe last night. I’ll make sure it’s properly dealt with. I promise.” 

She nods, her thoughts still on the attacker. “I wonder what he could have meant. About my mother,” she says, though it’s almost more to herself than to him. 

Chris picks up his coffee and takes a long sip, his eyes on her over the rim of his cup. “How much do you know about her?” he asks carefully. 

Rose shakes her head. “Almost nothing. I don’t remember her at all. I know that it was never a happy marriage and that it was very short. My fathers got together pretty soon after she died and the general story has been that the whole thing was a mistake. But about her, herself? I don’t know. It wasn’t something we ever really talked about and that was fine. My parents are Dad and Father and I mostly grew up with my Gran and Granddad. It was a non-topic. It just didn’t matter.” 

Chris studies her, his expression neutral. “Well, I’d say it’s about time you asked some questions,” he says in that same, even tone. 

Rose frowns at him a little. “What are you… do you know something that I don’t?” 

“Of course not,” he says, returning her frown. “I just meant – that. That maybe it’s time you found out who she was. That’s all.” 

The frown won’t leave her face and she looks down into her empty plate. “Maybe,” she says. 

He leans over and kisses her on the forehead. “Give me that,” he says gently, and pulls the plate from her hands. He carries their dishes over to the sink, then says something about getting dressed and heading to the station and she makes a sound to show she heard. After a bit, she uncurls herself and goes to find her robe, pulling it on as Chris collects his jacket and shoes and makes for the door. “Will you be all right?” he asks, fixing his dark eyes on her. “Not afraid to be on your own?” 

“No, I think I’m all right,” Rose tells him. “Thank you for staying, last night.” 

Chris smiles. “My pleasure,” he says. “Quite literally! See you soon?” 

She nods and he bends and kisses her. It’s a good kiss and she can already feel her body stirring again, wanting him, but then it’s over and he’s leaving. “Bye,” she says, and he says it back, already on the stairs. 

Rose listens for the door downstairs, then carefully shuts and bolts the upstairs one closed, and goes to take a shower. 

*** 

Two hours later, she’s still feeling ruffled about the entire thing, restless and bothered, so she decides to go out in search of a coffee. A latte, perhaps, something warm for the grey and chilly day. Rose opens the door on the street level and stops in her tracks. A black town car is stopped at the kerb directly outside and leaning against one of the rear doors is none other than Uncle Mycroft. “Hello!” she says, startled by his presence. “What are you doing here?” 

He doesn’t answer this, of course. “Good afternoon,” he says smoothly, favouring her with a slightly unpleasant smile. He turns and opens the car door. “Shall we go for a ride? I think it’s time you and I had a talk.” 

Rose hesitates. Dad’s told her stories about Uncle Mycroft’s famous car ‘abductions’, as he’s dryly called them, but she’s never been treated to one before. It doesn’t sound as if she’s got much of a choice, though, so she starts toward the car. “Where are we going?” she asks, glancing at him as she gets in. 

He climbs in gingerly after her, sitting down on a seating facing hers. “To one of my offices,” he says. “Somewhere secure.” 

He sounds grim and Rose is confused. Secure? Why secure? “I was just stepping out to get a coffee…” she trails off. 

“Coffee can be arranged.” Uncle Mycroft fixes his steely gaze on her and lapses into silence for the duration of the ride, not saying anything, just observing her, his hands clasped on the handle of his ubiquitous umbrella. 

She’s rather fond of him. He’s her only uncle and he’s a good sort, if a bit intimidating at times. She’s never quite seen him like this, though. She knows that he’s equally fond of her, in his slightly distant way. He’s taken a great interest in her studies and approved of her choice of fields, occasionally stopping by to interrogate Gran on her tutorial materials and bringing in additional books or procuring out-of-print things that Gran’s sent him off to track down. This is a new side of him, however. He’s never so much as mentioned security or a need for it before. 

They arrive on a street Rose doesn’t recognise at what she assumes must be Uncle Mycroft’s office and a black-suited man wearing very dark sunglasses and an earpiece that she can only just see opens her door before she can. Two more of these men follow them inside, stopping at a solitary lift and waiting there as Uncle Mycroft pushes the equally solitary button. The doors open. Inside, there are twelve buttons, none of which are labelled. The doors close and Rose turns to Mycroft, questions forming on her lips, but he just shakes his head. “Wait. Not here.” 

She subsides and looks up. There are no lights to indicate what floor they might be on or going to, and suddenly she has a sensation of being in some Cold War-era spy film. What is this!! Uncle Mycroft is a government official of some sort, but she never thought he was – whatever this would warrant! 

The lift finally stops and she doesn’t know whether they went up or down, whether it was two storeys or ten. Uncle Mycroft nods to the right and leads her down a narrow, dimly-lit corridor, then bends slightly in front of a panel to the left of an unlabelled office door. A red laser projection comes out and scans his retina. After a beep, he places his first two fingers directly on the screen and waits for a second beep, then the door swings open of its own accord. He walks inside, hangs his umbrella on a hook, disposes of his coat, then goes round behind the rather large desk and sits down, indicating the chair across from him. Then he pushes a button on his desk. 

There’s nothing else on it, Rose notices. No papers or files or computers. Just the button. She steps around the chair and sits down, then stares at her uncle, wondering what the hell all of this is. She opens her mouth, but then there’s a knock at the door. 

“Come!” Uncle Mycroft calls, and the door opens – manually this time. 

A neatly-dressed man in his forties comes in. “Yes, sir?” he asks, extremely deferential. 

“Tea, please. You know how I take it.” Uncle Mycroft is brief. 

“Of course. And for Ms Watson-Holmes?” 

How does he know who she is? Rose twists around. “A – coffee, if I might?” 

The secretary nods. “A latte?” he asks. “Very good.” He disappears without waiting for her answer. 

Rose turns back around to face her uncle. “How does he know that I like lattes?” she asks suspiciously. 

Uncle Mycroft favours her with another of those smiles. “Apart from being a fairly standard choice of beverage for one’s average university student, you mean?” 

She isn’t buying this for a moment. Not now, seeing this entire set-up. “Yes,” she says, the word rather pointed. 

Uncle Mycroft sighs. He leans back in his chair and steeples his hands on his desk, rather the way Father does, only the gesture looks completely different on him. “This day has been coming for a long time,” he says. “A very long time. Eighteen years, to be precise. I thought you should have been told sooner. The others disagreed. We sheltered for you for as long as it was possible. Today, at last, the time has come.” 

Rose blinks and processes this. “Is this because of what happened last night?”

He nods. “Why didn’t you tell one of us?” he asks, very directly, and just like that, the ‘one of us’ takes on more significance than it might have. Rose has the sensation of being a child surrounded by a team of adults who know a whole lot more than she does. 

“You mean you or Dad or Father?” she asks. 

Uncle Mycroft nods again. “Or my parents,” he says evenly. “But preferably one of the three of us, yes.” 

Rose opens her mouth. “I – actually, I thought of going to Uncle Greg, right after,” she says. “Only then I thought I should go home. And Chris said he would make a police report today. He should have done it by now.” 

“We’ll come to that,” Uncle Mycroft says. “First – ah.” He stops as a diffident knock sounds at the door. “Come!” 

The secretary returns, serving their beverages from a tray. He gives Rose a quick smile, one which seems a bit too sympathetic for her liking, then hastens away without a word. The latte looks wonderful, the foam thick, a rose design traced through it. “How did you know about last night?” she asks. “I know you’ve got access to the CCTV network – Father’s said – but I didn’t even see any cameras in that little street!” 

Uncle Mycroft’s expression takes on a hint of pride. “Very good,” he says smoothly. He reaches for a key inside his jacket pocket, then unlocks one of the desk drawers and takes out a laptop. Without a word he opens it, clicks several times, then turns it to face her, watching as she watches the attack play out. “We have a secondary system,” he explains after. “The cameras themselves are hidden. There is no part of London which they do not cover. And we are always watching.” 

Rose lifts her eyes from the laptop, the words sinking in. “Watching – me?” she asks in sudden horror. 

Mycroft just studies her, his eyes half-lidded. 

“But why?” she demands. 

His gaze is unwavering. “The attacker mentioned your mother,” he says, his voice level. “It’s finally time you were told who she was.” 

Rose swallows. “All right,” she says, and her voice comes out unevenly. She picks up the latte and takes a sip, and it’s delicious. “I take it she was… someone bad.” 

He takes another key and opens a different drawer. Inside it there is only one file. He withdraws it and folds his long fingers together on top of it. “This will not be easy, Rose,” he says, his voice as gentle as she’s ever heard it. “We’ve spared you for as long as we could. But we always knew that a day would come when you would have to be told. It’s best if I do it: for John, there is still too much guilt, and for Sherlock, the subject is difficult for him to discuss without personal bias. Your mother was – destructive, shall we say, to both of them. _My_ telling you is both a kindness to your fathers, and a necessity for you.”

Rose feels that she can barely speak. “Who was she?” she asks, dragging her eyes from the file to his face. 

Uncle Mycroft’s expression is very sober. “When she first started out, your mother was calling herself Annabelle Jackson, purportedly of Wichita, Kansas, but that was certainly not her real name. She used many, many other aliases during her lifetime, one of which was Rosamunde Mary, for whom you were originally named. At the point when she came into your fathers’ lives, she was calling herself Mary Morstan, a name which she took from the gravestone of a stillborn child. She began her career in the CIA, but lasted only three years before being discharged under multiple disciplinary actions. I myself have worked briefly with the Agency but I was there well before her time. It took me awhile to recognise her for who she was. After her time with the CIA, she went freelance, working for anyone who would hire her. The highest bidder, usually.” 

Rose is almost afraid to ask. “Working – as what?” 

“She was an assassin,” Uncle Mycroft tells her, his expression stark. “More than that: she worked to destabilise governments, assassinate leaders and diplomats, start wars. She was… rather effective.”

He passes her the file now and Rose looks down at it, almost afraid to open it. “And my attacker, last night? What country was he talking about?” 

“I’m not certain,” Mycroft admits. “It could be any number of countries. Going by his features, his background could be anywhere from northern India to Kazakhstan, though his accent says east London.”

Rose absorbs this in silence and opens the file. There are photos, all obviously of the same woman whom she recognises as her mother, but in various guises and types of dress. Many of the photos are blurry, as though taken from far away. There are emails requesting confirmation of her location, and articles about various countries, assassinations, political intrigues. The recurring theme is that all of it is bad: with the death of a certain president in South America, a democratic government is thrown over in a violent coup by a militant dictator. A hotel hosting peace talks between two opposing nations is set on fire and everyone inside dies, resulting in the outbreak of war. There’s more. She turns through the pages, taking in the wake of destruction, chaos, and – there’s no other term for it – terror evidently left behind by her mother. Toward the end, she stops, seeing two familiar-looking figures, and peers closer. “Is that – ?”

“Your fathers, yes,” Uncle Mycroft says, his voice almost sympathetic. “The location is a pool just outside London. She was a sniper hired by none other than James Moriarty.” 

The name is only a legend to Rose, but sends a trickle of fear down her spine. “The same one who made Father jump off a roof?” 

“The same,” he confirms. “She was there that day: that red laser dot on John’s forehead was her.” 

Rose shivers and turns the page. “How did Dad meet her? I mean – that can’t have been – or – ?” 

“No, it was all staged,” Mycroft tells her. “She got a job working at the same clinic, posing as a nurse. He was still grieving what he thought was Sherlock’s death and was… vulnerable. And lonely, I suppose. I should have checked her background more thoroughly. She was well back-stopped. A little too well. We almost missed it. We were almost too late, Sherlock and I.” 

He sounds sad, which is unusual. Rose doesn’t understand why. “What do you mean?” she asks. 

Uncle Mycroft opens the top drawer of his desk and withdraws a small plastic cylinder containing a single, crushed bullet. There are traces of dried blood on it and flaked around it like rust. “This bullet was dug out of Sherlock’s chest on the night of the eighteenth of June, 2014,” he says quietly. “Mary Morstan put it there. Sherlock accidentally stumbled into discovering who she really was. He offered to help her, but instead she shot him. She couldn’t risk having John find out who or what she was. When we became aware of her background and what a danger she actually was, we agreed that Sherlock would persuade John to stay with her at least until he was able to protect John from her. It was difficult, but he managed it, just. Mary was pregnant with you at the time, and this fact is likely the only thing that could have convinced John to go back to her, though it took him many months. He had returned to Baker Street to look after Sherlock as he recovered. The marriage failed soon after; Mary had become sloppy and left too many loose ends behind her. But you can understand, perhaps, why they have never wanted to discuss Mary with you.” Mycroft studies her, his gaze cool but still compassionate. “They didn’t want to bias you against her, nor did they want to feed you false information about her, paint you a romantic image that never existed. Instead we were all content – for the time being, at least – to let it become a subject that was simply never discussed.” 

Rose’s head is whirling, but she nods. “I get it,” she says, though her throat is tight. “I don’t get why Dad was ever with her, or how he could have gone back to her when she’d shot Father. I mean – didn’t he already love Father then? He told me once that he’d always loved him, right from when they first met.” 

Mycroft almost smiles. “To be fair, I think that he did,” he offers. “As I said, he met Mary in a time of great emotional turbulence. He thought that Sherlock had died two years prior, which was unfortunate, but necessary for his survival.” 

She nods. “Yes, they’ve told me about that. I understand that. But to go back to her – did he know that it was my mother who had shot Father?” 

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Again: you were on the way, and your father is a man who stands by his word, as I’ve come to see over the years. It was no easy choice for him to make, but he made it for your sake, putting his own feelings aside. He’d sworn a vow, and this is not something a man like John Watson easily forgets. But he was never happy with your mother. As to Sherlock, I warned him not to get involved. I was digging, but we weren’t fast enough. I partly blame myself, though your mother was responsible for her own actions.” 

“I understand why you didn’t tell me – why none of you told me,” Rose says slowly, after taking another sip of her rapidly-cooling latte. The thoughts swirl around her head in a maelstrom. “But – if there are still people angry with her all this time later, and they know I’m her daughter – ” Suddenly she stops, the thoughts coalescing. She looks across at him, her eyes widening in sudden understanding. “You’ve had me followed. Watched.” He doesn’t deny it. “Did you always?” 

Mycroft sighs. “Yes,” he says, looking down into his tea. “For all your life, at least while you were here in London. Not out in the country. It’s one of the reasons why you grew up in Gloucestershire, out of the public eye. Not only because you are your mother’s daughter, but because you are the daughter of your fathers. They are also quite well-known, and widely resented by the criminal sector. We did everything in our power to keep you safe.” 

“But – since I’ve moved here?” Rose presses, and he almost winces and looks away, but nods. She’s reeling, trying to take it all in. “So you know where I am, night and day.” 

Mycroft releases his fingers and fits them together again a different way. “Yes.” 

She slumps back in the chair she’s sitting in. “I can’t believe this. Is this why you all wanted me to live at Baker Street so much?” she asks, suddenly suspicious. And strangely hurt, too, she realises a moment later. Did Dad and Father really want her there, after all?

Uncle Mycroft blinks and surveys her face. “It would have made things simpler as far as security is concerned, but no, it was very much a sincere desire on the part of your fathers, if that’s what you’re really asking. It would have meant them making certain… accommodations, but it was a sacrifice they were very much willing to make for the benefit of having you there with them.” 

Rose studies him in turn. “You mean how they don’t take cases while I’m there,” she states, and Mycroft merely nods again, minutely. She sighs. “It would have put a cramp in their style. You know it. And I’m eighteen. I wanted – my independence. Not that I thought that they would – I mean, they’ve always been very relaxed about rules and that, but – I wanted to feel – I don’t know, adult, I suppose. I like having it this way, being able to visit more often, but all of us having our own space.” 

Mycroft blinks. “Which is entirely between the three of you to work out. I merely provide security. You being here in the city means that the dynamics have changed: there will be more people watching you now. You are, in essence, the daughter of three people, all of whom have earned a certain level of resentment from different quarters – for very different reasons, albeit,” he adds, as she opens her mouth to protest hotly in defense of her fathers. “Nonetheless, just by dint of being who you are, whose daughter you are, you may be in some danger. I thought it only fair to apprise you of the possibility, particularly given last night’s attack. It may not be the last of its kind.” He sits back at last and crosses his legs the other way. “Drink that before it gets cold,” he says, nodding toward her latte, then adds, “It’s a lot to take in. I am aware of that. But you cannot be kept in cotton wool forever. It was time for you to know the truth.” 

*** 

For the next several days, Rose feels as though she’s in a daze. She withdraws from everyone and stays holed up inside her apartment, trying to sort out what she’s learned. It all makes sense now; the only thing that doesn’t is that it never occurred to her to ask more. The very concept of _my mother_ never really existed as a known quantity. It was never anything more than a notion. Her mother wasn’t a real person to her, just an unhappy part of Dad’s history, something that almost had nothing to do with her. She searches her memory for one tiny scrap of recognition, a voice crooning over her. Singing, maybe? Or is that the very romanticised notion that Uncle Mycroft wanted her to avoid building in her head, some notion of the woman who was her mother that never existed in the flesh? 

She never asked because she particularly didn’t want to hurt Father. Or Gran, for that matter. For all intents and purposes, Gran has been more of a mother figure than anyone else. She’s had a non-traditional upbringing, she knows. Instead of the standard two-parent model, she’s had a host of people bringing her up: the safe, inner circle of her grandparents, the wider, more esoteric, cosmopolitan one of her fathers, the satellite figures of Harry, Carolyn, and Mycroft. She’s been loved, educated, given security and comfort, everything she could have wanted. There were no holes, no missing characters in her familial network. She wouldn’t have hurt Gran by asking about the shadowy notion of _my mother_. Brusque as Gran can be, Rose thinks of her huge blue eyes misting over with hurt, questioning herself and wondering where she’d forgotten something, let Rose down. Or Father – rarely up front about his deeper feelings, yet very much hurtable, vulnerable beneath the surface polish. She’s seen it in glimpses, here and there when Dad’s lost his temper with him or Mycroft has said something stinging. She would never do anything to make him feel as though she would have preferred it if Dad had stayed with the unknown concept-person of the woman who bore her. And now that she knows what she knows, about Mary Morstan having shot Father, about Dad leaving him to go back to her – for _her_ sake, Uncle Mycroft said – Rose squirms with the guilt of it. She would never say or do anything to hurt Father with this. 

If anything, the concept of her mother was one that produced little more than indifference in her. Now Rose feels profound loathing for the woman who levelled a sniper’s rifle at Dad’s head and then used his grief to manipulate him into marrying her. For the woman she saw in Uncle Mycroft’s file. All of those assassinations – murders, Rose re-terms them rebelliously. Call them what they are: the woman who was her mother killed people for whoever would pay her the most. 

She shudders. After a moment, she gets up and goes to switch on the kettle. When in doubt, make tea, as Gran always says. She stands there watching it, waiting for it to boil, her thoughts still stormy within her. That’s in her blood, then: that’s her heritage. Suddenly she wonders if Dad and Father were afraid of that, afraid of her mother coming out in her. Is that why they’ve always been so secretive about their work? Were they afraid she’d get too interested in it? Find gunshot wounds and poison victims too intriguing? It feels like a parasite within her, now that she knows about it. She’s studied the theories of nature versus nurture but doesn’t know where she comes down on it. Was this why they made certain that she grew up well away from it all? Or was it merely for her own safety, as Uncle Mycroft said? 

The kettle switches off and Rose realises that she didn’t even notice it was boiling. She pours the water over a teabag (a rather nice Darjeeling from Harrod’s that her parents gave her when she moved here), lets it steep for a few minutes, then takes out the bag, adds milk, and carries the cup into the sitting room to curl up on the sofa again. It’s a part of her, she thinks moodily: this woman. This history. The history of the violence between the three people who technically consist of her parents: Mary’s shot, Dad going back to Baker Street to look after Father, the betrayal of him returning to Mary when he knew that he loved Father. (Did he? How could he have left Father if he did? For the woman who’d done that to him? What if Mary hadn’t died when she had? Would Dad have never gone back?) Does everything have to be called into question now? 

Her eyes are stinging and she wipes them with the cuff of her jumper. It feels as though the very foundations of her life have been shaken with these revelations. She’s always believed solidly, unshakeably in the fact of her family’s love for her and for each other: that Gran and Granddad would be hopelessly lost without one another, no matter how strong and dominant Gran’s personality can be, that Father and Dad revolve around each other like planets in orbit, a solar system unto themselves, and that she’s always just had her place amid them all, entirely secure in it. She doesn’t doubt this part, and she doesn’t doubt that Dad loves Father beyond limit now. But was it always that way? Did Father ever doubt it? There’s so much she doesn’t understand. 

The room darkens as afternoon stretches into evening. After awhile she remembers that Chris texted earlier, wondering what she was up to tonight. She forgot to answer it. Company would be good right now. Maybe they’ll go out. Yes. That would be good. Rose picks up her phone and sends him an especially nice text. 

*** 

Chris notices her mood, which she makes an effort to keep to herself, but evidently it’s not working. He wants to know what’s wrong, but Rose doesn’t have the words to explain it and doesn’t want to talk about it, so she says that it’s nothing. Instead, she tells him that she wants him, and she does – she wants the closeness, the distraction of it. She pulls him to her, on his sofa, and he makes a sound of breathless agreement and starts to kiss her. It’s already better, the distraction working. Rose tells herself rebelliously that she’s eighteen (nearly nineteen, in January), that she’s a student who just wrote her Christmas exams, she should be allowed to be enjoying her freedom from the constant studying, spending an evening with her first serious boyfriend, not stuck moodily trying to make sense of her own family history and all of the introspection that’s come with it. Chris’s hands are travelling over her back, then around to her small breasts, which she likes. She’s breathing audibly, her head tipped back so that he can kiss her neck, which he does. She doesn’t protest when he unzips her jeans – she wanted him to. He slips his hand inside, his finger probing, and then it’s right there, on her, and it’s – she squirms in spite of herself, in spite of having wanted it. It’s too sensitive; it’s not comfortable. She twists away, her hand on his wrist. 

He pulls away, breathing hard, his face confused. “What?” he asks, not understanding. “Do you not – ”

Rose doesn’t know what to say, but she shakes her head. “No, it’s too – ” She doesn’t know how to describe it. “Let me touch you,” she says instead, redirecting, and Chris doesn’t protest. 

“Okay,” he says, his voice still breathy. 

Feeling slightly audacious, she reaches over and touches him through his jeans. He’s hard, and the feel of it makes her flush with arousal. He watches her through his dark eyelashes as she unbuttons his jeans, not interrupting or doing it for her, just watching, his lips parted. She gets the zip undone and squeezes him through his underwear, and he inhales hard. She glances at him. “Is that – good?” she asks, unsure of herself, needing to check, but he nods. 

“Yeah. It’s – really good,” he assures her. 

Emboldened, she goes on, shifting the waistband of his underwear down to free him, and wraps her hand around his cock. She’s never really seen one up close before and looks at it in fascination, the foreskin pulled back to expose the head, the slight difference in colour between this and the rest of it, the shininess of the liquid welling up from the tip. She turns to Chris and they kiss, hard, and she starts to stroke it, her face safely hidden. He makes noises into her mouth, his hips jerking, pushing himself into her grasp, breath escaping in bursts from his nose. He’s trembling, she realises, and likes that – it must feel good, then, what she’s doing. She changes her hand position and goes a little harder, and his sounds get more desperate. 

He breaks off from the kiss, breathing hard. “Do you – do you want to try it with your mouth?” he asks, and she realises a second later that it’s a request. 

“Oh – okay,” she says. She’s never done this before. Honestly, the most she’d ever done before the other night was touching through clothes, so this is new. But she doesn’t mind. She’s always assumed this might happen sometime and was always willing to give it a shot. From what she’s heard, men certainly seem to be fond of this, so why not? She wants him to feel good. Rose shakes her hair out of her face, shifts a little, then bends over to put her mouth on the cock jutting up from his open jeans. It’s big – uncomfortably big, and she can’t fit all that much of it in her mouth. She feels rather self-conscious about doing this. What if she isn’t any good at it? She closes her lips over the head of his cock a bit hesitantly, then remembers to touch the rest of it with her hand. She’s heard tips about this from other girls, but still. The taste of it isn’t bad, and the sound Chris makes seems to say that he definitely likes it so far. She presses her tongue into it and tastes more of that liquid leaking out and it’s salty and a little bitter. It’s not the most pleasant thing to have in her mouth, but presumably it’s going to be worse than this if she does it right, so she’d might as well get used to it. She feels like an idiot, bobbing her head up and down, but that’s what it’s supposed to look like, she thinks, so she dutifully does it. Maybe she could just do this for a little, and then they could have proper sex. 

Chris puts his fingers into her hair, pushing very slightly on the back of her head, and it makes her feel a bit panicked, like he’s going to push himself right into her throat and make her choke, so she stiffens without meaning to, resisting it. He doesn’t seem to notice. “God, that feels amazing,” he groans, pushing _up_ now, and her face is trapped between his hand and his pumping hips. 

She lifts her mouth off and says, trying to keep it light, “Good, but – don’t push me down, okay?” And goes back to sucking him before he can protest. 

He keeps his hand there but doesn’t push. “Sorry – ” he pants, his thighs beginning to shake. “I just – you’re good, love, you’re so – that’s so – ah – !!”

All of a sudden there’s gush in her mouth, hitting her right in the back of the throat and Rose nearly chokes, coughing with him still in her mouth, and then there’s more of it, his fingers tightening painfully in her hair. Her mouth is full of it and she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do. Spitting is considered rude, isn’t it? She grimaces, her eyes squeezed shut, and swallows it down. Ugh, that’s revolting! She finally gets her mouth off him and his cock shoots out a bit more, hitting her in the cheek and chin, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand, then puts it back on him to stroke a little more, in case he’s not done yet. A little more comes out, to her slight disgust, but his cock is already getting softer and smaller. 

The tension leaves Chris’s body and he slumps back onto the sofa cushions. “Wow,” he says, his voice going lazy. “That was incredible!” 

His arm is around her back, pulling her close to him, so Rose settles against his side and smiles, still feeling a bit self-conscious. “Was that okay?” she asks, though obviously he liked it. 

Chris grins at her. “Oh, yeah. You were fantastic.” He kisses her, stroking her hair. He doesn’t apologise for pushing her head, nor does he make any move to carry on. In fact, after a bit more snogging, he yawns. “Well, I’m bushed. I think I’ll turn in. Glad you could come over.” 

Rose draws back, feeling a bit ruffled. “Oh,” she says, feeling a bit let down. “Okay.” 

He frowns a little. “What?” 

She hesitates, not knowing how to put it, or whether she wants to say anything about it at all. “Well… no, never mind.” 

His frown deepens. “Don’t do that,” he objects. “Obviously it’s something. What is it?” 

Rose looks down at her hands, which are now in her lap. “Well, it’s just… what about me?” She tries a laugh, but it doesn’t really work. 

Chris is definitely frowning now. “What do you mean, ‘what about you’? I tried, and you didn’t like it, so I assumed you didn’t want that.” 

Rose feels heat rise to her cheeks. “You didn’t try very hard,” she says, already knowing that she’ll probably regret her honesty later. “I mean… there were other things you could have done. I was sort of hoping we’d have sex or something. Both of us.” 

“It’s a bit late for that now,” Chris says, sounding a bit defensive and gesturing vaguely at his spent cock. “You should have said so in the first place.” 

Rose opens her mouth, meaning to say something about how she hadn’t realised it was her job to prevent him from coming so that that could happen, then closes it again, changing her mind. She doesn’t want to either get angry or start crying, and either one could happen if she lets herself say anything else. She looks back down at her hands and notices that her nail polish is chipped on her right middle nail. 

“What?” Chris asks, looking at her. 

She shakes her head. “Never mind. It’s fine. I just – ”

“What?” he asks again. “Spit it out, would you?” 

His impatience strikes the wrong note within her and her anger rises in spite of herself. “Nothing,” Rose says, not quite snapping but close to it. “I just – wanted some company tonight. Your company, particularly. I’m glad you got something out of it. It just would have been nice if it had been – returned. Reciprocated. But maybe that wouldn’t have happened, anyway.” 

Chris gets to his feet and angrily zips his wilting cock back into his jeans. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands. 

Rose gets up and straightens out her own clothes, then tosses her hair back so that it’s not in her eyes. “What do you think it means?” This is too far now. She should stop and backtrack before it’s too late, but maybe that isn’t even possible. Besides, she’s angry now, feeling heat blazing in her cheeks. 

Chris’s voice is biting. “I don’t know, Rose, so why don’t you explain it to me?” 

This is nasty – he hates when she’s better at something than he is, and she frequently is, though he’s extremely intelligent himself. She thrusts out her chin and says it, too upset to care about the consequences at the moment. “Fine, then! I mean that it’s always about you! I know it’s only been three times now, but so far you’ve never – made sure it was any good for me!” He opens his mouth, looking both angry and confused, so she clarifies it for him before he can cut in and demand a further explanation. “I mean that I wasn’t satisfied, all right?” There, that should be adequately clear! Rose pulls on her coat and lifts first one foot, then the other to quickly tie the laces of her ankle boots. That done, she squares her shoulders and faces him. 

His face is a storm cloud. “I think you should go now,” he says, his voice very level in a way that says that he’s extremely angry. 

Well, that’s fine, because she is, too. “Oh, I’m going,” Rose flashes, and turns and lets herself out. She stops for a moment on the pavement, but he doesn’t come after her. Fine. If he’s humiliated by finding out that he utterly failed to satisfy her, let him stew in it. Serves him right. She flags down a taxi and gives the driver her address, and lets herself into her darkened apartment. 

So much for that, then. Maybe he’ll be completely done with her after this. Rose pulls off her things, then goes to fling herself facedown on her bed. Sod everything. 

*** 

He doesn’t call. After four days have gone by, Rose tells herself that he isn’t going to. What a bastard, she thinks bitterly, breaking all of her nutrition rules for once and eating ice cream moodily on the sofa, directly from the tub. He could have at least told her that they were officially finished. A better boyfriend would have realised he’d fallen short and tried to make it up to her, starting then and there. She scowls as she remembers him asking if she’d like to ‘try it with (her) mouth’ and thinks that _he_ could have tried it with _his_ mouth, if it came to that. Reciprocation and all that! Or he could have tried touching her differently, more gently or something. She isn’t exactly sure what was wrong with what he did, just that it had been too much, somehow. Too rough, perhaps. Either way, he’s clearly chosen to sulk about it instead of trying to do better. Combined with his slight sensitivity over her getting higher grades on their course work, his occasional insensitivity over her preferred eating choices, and now this, perhaps she’s well shot of him. 

But it still stings. She went over because she wanted company, some distraction from her inner turmoil over finding out who her mother was, why she was attacked, trying to make sense of what that means about herself, who she is, in turn. Instead, now she’s got a break-up to compound it all, make her even more miserable than she already was. It stinks. 

Christmas is coming, meanwhile, and Rose isn’t feeling the spirit of it whatsoever. She goes home to Hardwicke the following weekend and bakes cookies with Gran and Granddad on Saturday, and that helps a little. Just being there with them helps, inordinately. Their company is soothing, though all of the questions she’s got about her own past, and that of her three parents, haven’t gone anywhere. She feels bruised and confused and it will all need dealing with, but she’s not in the mood to tackle it all just yet. If Gran and Granddad sense that she’s gone a bit withdrawn, they don’t comment on it, or press her to talk about it. They’re too old-fashioned for that. Instead, Granddad invites her out for a long tramp over the hills on Sunday afternoon. They don’t talk; he’s never been a big talker, and Rose is grateful for his quiet presence and their companionable silence. The field grasses are crunchy with frost and the country air is invigorating after Greenwich. After they get back, she and Gran make egg salad from the eggs Gran boiled earlier, and Gran keeps up a steady stream of light chitchat about the salad procedures as they chop and stir. Rose eats hers from sturdy lettuce cups and Gran and Granddad eat theirs from the baguette that Granddad always buys at the village bakery. It’s homey and familiar and by the time Granddad drops her at the train station for the London-bound 7:10, Rose feels a little more grounded than she did. 

It’s just avoidance, though, she reminds herself on the train, leaning her head against the glass and watching the countryside go by, not seeing it. It doesn’t change anything. 

A few days go by. She goes Christmas shopping, buying gifts for her family members and broods over all of it. She can’t imagine what Dad must have said to Father to make it all okay, smooth things over after having left him for the woman who shot him. Or maybe Father did something to turn Dad away. She hates it, hates that this new knowledge has called everything she’s ever believed in as the solid foundations of her life into question. They’ve always been there, solid and sure, and so clearly still very much in love with one another, as devoted as Gran and Granddad, but still in the middle of it. They’ve still got fire to it, even at their age. She believes that they love each other – so the rest of it doesn’t fit. She just can’t make sense of it. 

On Wednesday, her friend Leah from her metabolism & disease class texts to invite her to a party at her place on Friday. Rose thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs and texts back, asking for the details, and decides to go. Chris was in that class, too. Perhaps he’ll be there. Rose tells herself defiantly that that’s not why she’s going – but just in case, she plans to look especially nice, and goes shopping for it. When Friday comes round, she dresses herself with care, wearing a pair of black jeans tighter than she would usually wear and a deep red camisole with very skinny straps that’s cut very low, fitted closely in the chest and then flowing away in fluttering layers of chiffon. She styles her hair in loose waves and chooses a very red lipstick that she bought to match the camisole. She went for a manicure and pedicure in the afternoon at the place just up the street and her nails match her lips and shirt. Perhaps it’s a bit much, with all the red, but it’s holiday-ish, she thinks. Christmas-y. If she can’t make herself feel it, at least she can look it. Besides, she deserves to have a little fun with all the rest of this going on, damn it! She intends to let go a little, cut loose for once.

She slips on her highest black heels, then reaches for her coat, purse, and the bottle of wine she bought for the occasion, then goes down to get a taxi. She could take the tube, but with her heels, she’d just rather not. It’s lazy, but her parents and grandparents would all probably prefer it, anyway. As the taxi slows at the kerb, Rose glances up and wonders if one of Uncle Mycroft’s employees is watching her even now. She remembers his secretary’s overly familiar air, as though they’d known one another forever, and the way he already knew she likes lattes, and thinks that he’s probably been watching her through camera lenses since she was a small child. She pulls the cab door shut harder than she meant to and gives the driver Leah’s address. 

She arrives just at the right time; there are lots of other people there already and the party is in full-swing. Rose scans the room quickly but doesn’t see Chris, and immediately feels more relaxed. Leah comes over and exclaims over her outfit and shoes, points out where to leave her coat, and after that everything just falls into place. She knows a lot of people there from various classes; the food sciences program isn’t that big. She drinks her wine and joins conversation circles, talking a bit louder than usual to be heard over the noise and music. 

The evening slides away. A tall, rather beautiful girl that she doesn’t know comes over and asks what Rose is drinking. Rose confesses that she doesn’t remember exactly what sort of wine it is and offers to show her, so they go into the kitchen. The girl introduces herself as Cairo, a third-year student with long, red hair tumbling down her bare back. She’s wearing a short, loose black dress that ends well above her knees and fastens behind her neck, leaving her long, wavy hair to trail in profusion down almost to where the dress finally resumes just above her bottom. Rose immediately feels more cute than sexy and much less coordinated and graceful than this gazelle-like creature who’s examining her wine. 

“Do you want to try some?” she asks. “Go ahead, if you like.” 

Cairo’s eyes flick from the wine label to Rose’s face. “Sure,” she says casually. “I’d love to see what a ‘cherry nose’ tastes like. I know what the other sort taste like, but not this.” 

For a moment, Rose doesn’t know how to react to this, because the secondary, far more lewd meaning of what Cairo just said only dawns on her a second after she said it. She blinks and says, “Well, help yourself…” 

Cairo grins. Her smile is wicked and her eyes are very green, lined darkly, with long, sooty lashes. “I think I will, but then you’ve got to try what I’ve brought.” 

Rose agrees and they swap drinks. It turns out that Cairo was drinking straight spirits, and although Rose knows very well the dangers of mixing alcohols – it’s all right there in their course material, plus Dad’s always made sure she had a solid grounding as far as all that goes – but she’s feeling reckless, and besides, the Midori is good. She’s made a new friend, and a cool one, besides. Cairo takes her by the hand and tugs her back into the main room just in time for Leah to half-shout over the noise that they should play Spin the Bottle. It seems a bit childish to Rose, but at the moment it seems like fun and people are agreeing. Not everyone, but about twelve of them sit down in a ragged circle on the carpet in one corner of Leah’s flat. On the other side of the sitting room, people are dancing while others are talking in the kitchen, and the music is still quite loud. 

Rose knows most of the people playing, though not all of them. The guy sitting to Leah’s right spins first and it lands on a girl named Angela who’s in Rose’s cell biology class. 

“What are the rules, exactly?” he asks. 

“You’ve just got to kiss her,” Leah tells him. “It doesn’t matter how. Your choice.” 

The guy shrugs, grinning, and crawls across the circle to Angela. “I’m Robin, by the way,” he says. 

“Angela,” says Angela, and he kisses her very quickly on the lips. 

Rose watches, laughing at people’s various reactions. She gets kissed by Leah’s roommate Kyle, then Tariq from biochemistry, and then Leah, who kisses her on the cheek with a quick smile. People cheer when Kyle spins the bottle and it lands on Robin. Kyle protests loudly, but is made to comply or quit, as Leah orders him. There’s a _very_ quick peck on the cheeks and both guys are red in the face after. Then Cairo spins, and the bottle stops pointing at Rose. Several people cheer, and Cairo grins at her, her green eyes glinting with playfulness. She leans over and kisses Rose full on the mouth, and it’s not short, either. Rose finds herself kissing back almost just out of instinct, but it’s also quite nice, prickles of heat sweeping through her. 

“Oh, Jesus,” she hears one of the guys say after. “I’m going to need a cold shower after that one!” 

“That makes two of us,” Cairo says, grinning and tossing her long hair back over her shoulder, but sends Rose a small, private wink after. 

A guy named Murray spins to Cairo a few turns later and she kisses him obligingly, but Rose notices that it’s shorter, and also that she feels a prickle of jealousy. She only just met Cairo, she reminds herself. It’s not as though she’s exclusively her own friend. As the game goes on, they all drink more and more and the kisses get longer and more heated. Rose’s spins land her with Robin, a girl named Lucy from Leah’s home village, Murray, then Cairo again. She flushes in spite of herself, looks at Cairo, then leans over and kisses her on the lips. She can hear people cheering again, as they’ve done for some of the others, but it’s background noise. Her hand is on Cairo’s face, and Cairo’s lips are parted, her tongue slipping into Rose’s mouth. The heat in Rose’s cheeks plunges directly south and she pulls away in embarrassment, ducking her face. 

Cairo spares her by taking the bottle and giving it a spin in turn, but it lands on Rose again. Massive cheering erupts. Cairo takes Rose’s face with both hands and doesn’t hesitate at all this time, kissing her deeply and with a lot of tongue. 

“Touch her tits!” Murray calls out, and it’s followed by a lot of whooping and cheering from everyone else. 

Rose doesn’t know whether they’re talking to her or Cairo, but then Cairo takes Rose’s left hand and pulls it to her chest, and then her hand is there, cupping Rose’s breast through her thin camisole. She’s simultaneously embarrassed and turned on, though she’s also even more embarrassed to be turned on in such a public setting. And yet she’s not doing anything about it, either, just kissing Cairo back and instinctively squeezing her hand where it’s been placed. When the kiss stops at last, Cairo smiles at her as though no one else is there, brushes Rose’s hair out of her eyes, and sits back. She doesn’t move completely away, though, and once the commotion has died down and the guy to Cairo’s right is spinning, Cairo leans over. 

“You’re still red. It’s incredibly cute, you know.” 

Rose risks a look at her, flushing still more at this. “I’m so embarrassed,” she says, keeping her voice down. “But – I’m not sorry.” 

Cairo’s brows lift. “No? Good.” She leans her arm into Rose’s, letting their fingers touch behind Rose’s back. 

Rose feels a bit like panicking, but also a bit defiant. She’s just having a bit of fun. It’s the holidays and she’s just been dumped and what’s the harm? It’s just Spin the Bottle. Cairo moves away when Leah’s spin lands on her and this time, she feels an even bigger surge of jealousy as Leah crawls across the circle to to kiss her. She’s noticed that everyone kisses Cairo on the lips, male or female, and it’s easy enough to see why – she’s drop-dead gorgeous, and a phenomenal kisser besides. Then Kyle’s spin lands on Robin again, and Rose is surprised to see them both flush. The amount of hooting and cheering that follows when Kyle kisses Robin on the mouth – and that Robin kisses back, even putting his arms around Kyle’s shoulders – takes some of the focus off herself and Cairo at last, and she’s grateful. 

The doorbell rings then (evidently someone ordered pizza) and Leah declares the game over as she jumps up to go and get it. Everyone scrambles to their feet and Rose fleetingly thinks that now Cairo will likely wander off and go and talk to whichever friends she came with, and also wonders why she feels so despairing about this, but then Cairo is there, her lips directly on Rose’s ear. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s… go and find somewhere. I’m nowhere near done kissing you yet.” 

Rose doesn’t know what she means, but nods, a thrill of excitement rushing through her at the thought of getting to kiss Cairo again. Cairo takes her by the hand again and leads her toward the room Rose recognises at Leah’s. Kyle’s door is closed and she wonders if he and Robin are in there. It’s only a mild curiosity, though; at the moment her slightly-blurry thoughts are much more preoccupied with whatever’s about to happen in Leah’s room. 

Cairo closes the door behind her and locks it. “Come back here, you,” she murmurs, walking over to Rose. Being taller than Rose, she locks her arms around Rose’s shoulders and bends to claim her mouth, and Rose lets her have it, closing her eyes and letting herself revel in it. It feels good, her entire body is clamouring for more of it. Her heart is beating very quickly, partly out of nerves over even doing this, but it’s not that it feels wrong, exactly, it’s just – she can feel her own hesitation in her hands where they’re resting only very lightly on Cairo’s slender waist. Cairo feels it, too, and pulls away, searching her face. “Unless you’d rather not,” she says. “Nothing has to happen…”

Rose hesitates, then bites her lip and decides to take the plunge. “No, I want to,” she says, and that’s it, that’s the bridge crossed. 

Cairo makes a sound not unlike a purr. “Good,” she says, and kisses Rose again. “I saw you the minute you walked into the flat and knew I wanted to talk to you. At the very least. You’re gorgeous, you know.” 

Her words go straight to Rose’s bruised ego and a bloom of heat flushes through her. She gives a self-conscious laugh. “Coming from _you_ , that’s pretty nice,” she murmurs, and Cairo kisses her again, hard. 

“May I?” she asks breathlessly, her hands lighting on the curves of Rose’s arse, and Rose nods. Cairo’s body feels slim and lithe under the loose-fitting dress, the skin of her back warm. Cairo walks her backward until they’re tumbling onto Leah’s bed, Cairo bending over her. Her long, red hair is dangling in Rose’s face, touching her cheek as Cairo’s long fingers stroke it. “Have you ever done this before? With a girl?” she asks. 

Rose shakes her head, her heart still pounding. “I’ve – only just barely done this with a guy,” she admits. “Is – is that – I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“It’s okay,” Cairo assures her. “As long as you want to. We don’t have to. But I’m dying to touch you.” 

Rose blinks and swallows, then nods. “Yeah. I want to.” _Want you_ , she didn’t say, but could have. It was easy to see during the game that every single person playing it found Cairo attractive. It’s sort of amazing that _she’s_ the one Cairo plucked out of the crowd and chose for this. Between the mix of the wine and the Midori, Cairo’s charisma, and her own arousal, Rose feels lightheaded, her veins swimming with want. 

Cairo climbs onto her and they kiss almost frantically, the long, sinuous length of Cairo moving against her. Her fingers find their way to between Rose’s legs, stroking her through the tight, black denim. She makes a questioning sound into the kiss and Rose makes a breathy moan of very affirmative response, arching up into Cairo’s touch. She lets herself touch Cairo, her hands sliding up the short, loose dress to squeeze with all ten fingers, and Cairo moans low in her throat and moves her mouth to Rose’s neck. 

Rose doesn’t resist when Cairo’s fingers cunningly unbutton her jeans to touch her through her underwear, and when she sits up to pull the dress off completely, Rose follows suit and takes off her shirt. Cairo bends over her, her hair a cloud of scented, spice-coloured profusion in Rose’s face as she puts her mouth to Rose’s breasts, her fingers slipping down the front of her underwear. She can feel how wet she’s got, and when Cairo touches her, it’s nothing like how it was when Chris did it. She’s biting her lip to keep from gasping too loudly, and touching Cairo wherever she can reach in return. 

Cairo lifts her head, her green eyes dark and sultry. “This okay?” she asks, just above a whisper. “I want you to feel good.” 

Rose nods jerkily. “Yeah – it’s good,” she confirms, and Cairo smiles. 

“Can we take these off?” she asks, meaning Rose’s jeans, and she agrees to that. Their underwear comes off, too, and the next time they kiss, it’s with nothing between them. It feels completely different, having a slender, softer, eminently feminine body touching hers, and Rose couldn’t even say which she prefers at the moment. She only knows that it feels good. Cairo mouths at her breasts again, then shifts downward, kissing Rose’s pale stomach as she goes. She looks up again. “I’m dying to taste you,” she confesses, as though it’s a secret, and Rose’s pulse seems to treble. “Can I?” 

She must have nodded, because the next thing she knows, Cairo’s tongue is right _there_ , pushing its way into her folds, going right to a place that makes Rose moan without meaning to. She covers her mouth with the back of her hand to keep herself quiet, but it’s difficult. It feels better than anything she’s ever felt before. At the moment she can only feel grateful that Cairo is decidedly _not_ shy when it comes to doing this. Her tongue and lips are incredibly talented, and she’s clearly done this before, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is how good it feels. Her body is winding tighter and tighter, her breath turning to fire in her lungs. Cairo takes her right hand and weaves their fingers together and Rose grips tightly as Cairo’s tongue rubs and rubs, massaging against her entrance and coming back to that same, incredible spot over and over again. When the crest comes, waves of sensation break over Rose, her entire body shaking, her jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut, her thighs convulsing around Cairo’s slender shoulders, the back of her fist pressed into her teeth. The strength of it takes her by surprise, panting as Cairo licks her throughout it, her eyes fixed on Rose’s face. It’s the first orgasm she’s ever had with someone else, since Chris never bothered making sure that happened, and it feels better than anything she’s ever experienced. 

Cairo crawls back up beside her. “You okay?” she murmurs, stroking Rose’s hot cheek with the backs of two fingers. 

Her hair is curling around Rose’s right breast, and she nods, still breathing hard. “That was incredible,” she pants. She turns her head. “What – what do I do for you? Should I – touch you, or something?” She feels a bit lost, but it’s only decent to reciprocate, isn’t it? She feels a bit intimidated to try what Cairo just did, but if that’s what she wants, it would only be fair… Rose watches her, waiting. 

Cairo smiles. “You don’t have to do a thing. Unless, if you don’t mind…” 

Rose nods. “Sure. Whatever you’d like,” she says quickly, still breathy. 

Cairo straddles her again, bending over her. “What I’d really like is just – this,” she says, rubbing her body against Rose’s, like they were before. “Do you mind?” 

Rose shakes her head. “Not at all. I like it.” 

Cairo closes her eyes, then lowers her face and kisses her again. Rose touches her, lets her hands stroke down her smooth back, down to her small, soft arse. This in particular feels very feminine compared to Chris’s harder, more muscular one, and fits her hands just so. Cairo seems to like this a lot, and it feels good, what she’s doing. Rose goes on squeezing her arse as Cairo writhes against her, their kissing wet and breathless, and she feels it when Cairo gets there, the spasm shuddering through her body, her moans muffled in Rose’s mouth. 

They lie there for a little longer, kissing and touching each other, but not saying much. After a bit, Cairo rolls off the bed and reaches for her knickers and then her dress, slipping it on over her head. Rose reaches for her own things and gets dressed. Cairo nods her head toward the door. “Should I go first?” she asks, once Rose is ready. 

“Sure. Okay,” Rose says. She hesitates. Is that it? (Does she want it to be?) 

Cairo’s green eyes seem to take the measure of her, glittering a little. “That was fun,” she says casually. “Nice meeting you. Happy Christmas.” 

Rose blinks. Right, then. “Same,” she says, a bit lamely. “Happy Christmas.” 

Cairo gives her a funny sort of smile, then slips out of the room. 

Rose waits a moment or two, then follows her. No one seems to notice her reappearance. She goes into the kitchen to pour herself the last of her wine, her heart still pounding strangely. Cairo already seems to be immersed in a conversation with three guys she doesn’t know over in a corner of the sitting room. Rose spots Leah talking to her flatmate in what looks like a somewhat serious conversation and decides not to interrupt them. Someone says her name, so she turns and sees two people from her human nutrition class. Time to put her party face back on, as though nothing just happened. “Hi!” she says, and tries to remember what acting normal is supposed to look like. 

*** 

The next few days are a nightmare. It starts on Sunday afternoon when Chris texts her: 

_So you’re a lesbian now?? Everyone’s_  
_saying you hooked up with Cairo Jacobs_  
_at Leah’s the other night. Guess that’s why_  
_you weren’t interested in me, but you only_  
_had yourself to blame. Why didn’t you tell_  
_me from the start and save me the trouble?_

Rose cries when she reads the text. She stayed in the city to do some Christmas shopping and because of Leah’s party, and already woke up on Saturday with one of her infrequent hangovers and an uneasy sense of guilt over what happened with Cairo. She’s in two minds about the whole thing. One the one hand, she feels perfectly justified in having tried it out, just as an experiment. People are supposed to experiment at her age, aren’t they? That’s what people do in uni, isn’t it? But on the other hand, she feels uncertain of her own moral ground (was that completely slutty? Hooking up with a perfect stranger at a party like that?) and more than a little sexually confused. Does this make her a lesbian? She certainly enjoyed it more than her limited experiences with Chris, yet perhaps she just hadn’t tried enough to figure out what she really liked with him. Perhaps he just didn’t do it correctly. She spends Saturday avoiding the world except to go out to get a latte from the café on the corner, retreating hastily to avoid giving Uncle Mycroft’s staff too much material to analyse. 

Chris’s text comes on Sunday and fills her with shock and dismay. First off, she had no idea that anyone was talking about her and Cairo. Well, maybe from the game, but no one was supposed to have noticed them sneaking away after. The thought of being the main subject of gossip of practically everyone she knows – and for having done _that_ – is horrifying. Furthermore, to have Chris now accusing her of being a lesbian, of blaming his own inattention on her for it – she feels humiliated, angry, and ashamed on top of it. 

She ignores his text and texts Leah instead, thinking for a long moment, then carefully typing: _Hey, thanks for inviting me on Friday. I hope everything’s cool. I hear there are a few rumours going around…_

She adds the emoji with the anxious, teeth-gritting face and sends the text, then waits nervously for Leah to text back. Leah doesn’t respond until that evening, by which time Rose has anxiously checked all of her social media for any mentions of herself (so far nothing) and tried not to check her texts too often (utter failure). Finally Leah answers with: _Oh yeah? I haven’t heard anything. You ok?_

In relief, Rose writes back, _Mostly. I think. You really haven’t heard anything at all?_

She sees an ellipsis appear right away, then Leah texts, _No, unless you just mean about you and Cairo. Don’t worry, if anyone’s talking about it, it’s only bc they’re jealous! Kyle and Robin hooked up too, and now I think they’re dating! Robin didn’t even know he was gay, lol!_

Rose’s heart sinks at the first part, but it’s not as bad as it could be, if Leah takes that view of it. As for Leah’s shy-ish roommate and Robin, that’s interesting. She didn’t know that Robin was gay, either. Then again, these things can surprise a person, she thinks with great irony. But Chris’s comments are nasty and cut deeply. She doesn’t know what she is, who she is, who her parents are, any of it, and it’s Christmas, which she loves, and which is barely registering for her this year. It’s not the way she imagined her first semester of uni would end and it feels as though everything has come crashing down around her. She packs her things and sets her small flat in order. 

The plan is to stay with Dad and Father until Wednesday the twenty-third, when they’ll all go up to Gloucestershire to spend Christmas itself plus a few extra days with Gran and Granddad. Father says that Mycroft will probably only come up for Christmas Day itself, and typically on Boxing Day Gran and Granddad have some of their friends from the village over for drinks in the evening. Rose checks that she’s got everything, all of her gifts, then turns and shuts out the lights and locks the door behind her. She feels a little as though she’s turning her back on her new life here, every part of it, then shakes her head and goes down to the pavement to flag down a cab. 

Dad texts her just after she gets inside, anxiously wondering if she’s still coming. She texts _On my way now_ and he sends back a smiley face and a Christmas tree emoji, and she remembers that they’re supposed to be decorating the tree when she arrives. Right. Perhaps it will be a good distraction, she tells herself, watching the city lights go by and wishing she didn’t feel so very mixed up. 

They’re both there when she arrives, coming to the top of the stairs when they (probably Father) hear her step on the stairs, arms held out in welcome, their voices overlapping as they both speak at once. She reaches them at the same time and is enfolded in their arms, their love, and for a moment she lets the rest of it go and hugs them back in sheer relief at being with them. Whatever happened in the past, the point is that they are what they are now, at least: together, in love, and there for her they way they’ve always been. She lets Dad take her suitcase upstairs and Father drags her inside to demand her opinion on the tree they’ve selected. 

Rose admires it, set against the window to be shown off to the world below, the desk shifted aside to give it space. “It’s beautiful,” she says, meaning it. “Where did you get it?” 

Father tells her about the market set up near their Tesco, about Dad trying to bargain down the price. “Anyway, that doesn’t matter,” he says briskly. “Give me your coat. Have you eaten? I’ve made _chocolat chaud à l’ancienne_.” 

Father’s hot chocolate is the best. “I’m not hungry, but I’d have some of that,” Rose says, surrendering her coat. 

Dad comes back downstairs. “Make that two of us. Three of us, rather.” 

“Oh, thanks,” Father says sardonically. “Am I permitted? I only made it…” 

Dad chuckles and cuffs him playfully. “Shut it, you.” 

Father’s eyes crinkle at him. “Make me.” 

Dad shuts him up by kissing him, on the mouth, then Father breaks away, grinning unrepentantly, and goes to pour them each a cup of his magical concoction. He makes it from a recipe that Gran picked up in Lyon one summer, calling for dark chocolate, heavy cream, vanilla, sugar, and a pinch of cinnamon. He usually substitutes honey for the sugar, and some years he’ll add chili, too. But then he insists that they refer to it as Mayan hot chocolate, and Dad will usually roll his eyes at Rose, who will smile, but dutifully call it whatever Father wants. 

They’ve got music playing, traditional Christmas carols sung by a choir which Father informs her is King’s College, Cambridge, and Dad takes the lids off the boxes of glass ornaments they always use and announces, as he always does, that the star must be reserved for the end. They trim the tree together and some of the ache in Rose’s heart seems to subside as they do. Traditions help, evidently, as does being in the company of two of the people who love her most in the world. She wonders a bit if their opinion of her would change if they knew what she did on Friday night, shut away in Leah’s bedroom with Cairo. It probably doesn’t line up with their perception of her, she thinks, feeling the corner of her mouth twist as she fits a small, frosted glass bauble onto one of the mid-to-lower pine boughs. She hopes they wouldn’t be disappointed in her, but one never knows, do they? 

Still. It’s nice to crawl into her bed here, once the tree has been pronounced perfect. Father takes about twenty photographs of it (a recent fixation of his) while Rose and Dad drink their hot chocolate on the sofa, the carols finished and the ornament boxes emptied. 

In the morning, Dad and Father slightly compete to make her breakfast, despite her mild protest that she can make her own (“it’s Christmas!” they both insist), tripping over one another to make two perfectly turned eggs, bacon, and what Father terms with not-quite-hidden disgust “one of your low carb mug muffin things”, adding, “and I, unlike John, prefer to mix the coconut flour and egg _completely_ , so that it doesn’t have that revolting texture to it” as he presents it to her with a pair of tongs, and Rose takes it, not knowing whether to laugh, cry, or cry with laughter. Dad jumps in to point out that he’s made her bacon exactly as she likes it, which Father counters by pointing out the eggs, and Dad further rebuts this by placing a pot of hot English breakfast on the table in front of her. 

Rose glances back and forth between them, still holding her coconut flour muffin. “What’s got into the two of you?” 

They look at each other. “Nothing,” they say in almost unison. Then Dad adds, “We’re just happy to have you home for the holidays. That’s all.” 

Rose is entirely unconvinced. Did Gran say something, after last weekend? Did Mycroft? She decides she’d rather not know, at least not now. “All right,” she says dubiously. “Er. Are the two of you eating?” 

They look at each other again. “Oh – of course,” Dad says. “There’s lots of bacon,” he says to Father. 

Father leans over and kisses him on the head in thanks. “I’ll make us some eggs,” he says, and goes back to the stove. 

“Toast?” Dad asks him, and Father hums in agreement. Dad deposits four slices in their oversized toaster, then comes to sit down across from Rose, pouring her a cup of tea, then himself and Father after, fixing Father’s with milk and sugar, then tipping a bit of milk into her cup and then his own. 

“Thanks,” Rose says, and sips it. Father’s right; he made her muffin perfectly. 

“Don’t wait on us,” Dad hastens to assure her, so she goes ahead and cuts into her eggs, too. 

After breakfast, Father goes off to the lab for some reason or other, and Dad says he’ll be downstairs to have a go at fixing a loose washer under the sink in 221A where Mrs Hudson’s nephew lives. Rose says when they ask that she’s going to wrap her gifts, and she does. A little while later, Dad comes back upstairs, announces with pride that he managed to fix the problem without phoning a plumber, and that he’s going to make them some lunch. Rose, curled up in the corner of the sofa with the book she’s just started ( _Mother’s Milk_ by Edward St. Aubyn), looks up at this and realises that the morning has slipped away. 

Dad sets about making his perfected tomato basil bisque and Rose makes a big salad to go with it, rocket and spinach with toasted pecans and segments of clementine scattered over the greens. She mixes together a simple balsamic dressing for it and tosses the whole thing. When Dad’s soup is ready, he dishes them both big bowls of it and they help themselves to the salad. They eat in an odd sort of silence. Rose feels that Dad must be aware that something has happened. She doesn’t know what to say. They finish, and he takes their dishes to the sink and fills the kettle. “Thought I’d make us a cup of that cinnamon stuff Sherlock found in a shop last week,” he remarks. “Seems like a good day for it.” The kettle boils and he makes their tea, then nods toward the sitting room. “Let’s go and drink it in there, shall we?” 

His question is delivered with a fairly firm tone; it’s not a suggestion per se. Rose swallows and meekly follows him into the sitting room. Dad waits for her to sit down where she was before, in the corner of the sofa, sets down the tea tray on the coffee table, then puts himself in the middle of the sofa next to her. He fits his fingers together between his knees, turns to look at her with one of his nice, frank looks, and says, “So: tell me. What’s on your mind, my love?” 

Something in his gentle tone brings a lump to Rose’s throat and suddenly it’s all right there again. She looks down at her hands and thinks of them touching Cairo on Friday night, of them held rigidly around a cup of coffee in Uncle Mycroft’s mysterious government lair the other week, of them holding Chris’s arms as he was inside her. She doesn’t even know her own hands anymore. She doesn’t know how to begin. Her mouth opens, but no words come out. “How did you know?” she asks at last. 

Dad makes a slightly impatient sound. “Come on, Rose. I do know you rather well. Give your old man some credit. Plus Gran said you were very withdrawn all last weekend. Come on. Out with it, then. What’s going on?” 

“It’s – lots of things,” Rose fumbles. She shakes her head a little. “So many things in a short little time, and I don’t – know how to process it all.” 

“Such as?” Dad’s voice is gentle. 

“Such as my mother,” Rose says, the words sticking in her throat. She glances up at Dad’s face in time to see it go rigid. “Uncle Mycroft talked to me.”

She sees the anger register. “What? He had no business – ” Dad starts, too loudly, but Rose cuts him off. 

“I was attacked,” she says sharply. “By someone who wanted some sort of revenge on – on Mary. For whatever she did to his country, whichever country it was. It was utterly bewildering to me, until Uncle Mycroft brought me into some office of his and explained everything. He said he did it partly as a mercy to you and Father. So that you wouldn’t have to be the ones to tell me who she was. _What_ she was. And I understand why you didn’t. I do. It’s – some of the rest of it that I don’t understand.” 

Dad takes a long, steadying breath and opens and closes his hands several times, a sure sign of stress. “Like what?” he asks, careful now, and Rose hears the fear in his voice. He’s afraid that she’ll turn on him over this, that she’s found something unforgiveable in whatever he’s done. 

Her heart tightens for him, but it’s so full of its own pain that she feels she can hardly deal with Dad’s on top of hers. Her throat feels tight. “I don’t understand why you left Father, after she shot him,” she says, the words difficult to get out. This is really it, the part that seems to hurt the most. She can’t even say why it does. “I thought you always loved him. That’s what you told me, that you’d loved him right from the start. From the day you two met. How could you have gone back to the person who shot him? What happened?” 

It’s an accusation and Dad knows it. He looks down at his knees. “I never thought you would be told about that,” he mutters, almost more to himself than to her. Then he clears his throat and fixes her with his steady, grey-blue eyes. “Look,” he tells her, his voice abrupt. “I’ve never talked to you about your – about Mary, because I never wanted to either lie to you or give you a false image of her. She was what she was, and I honestly don’t know whether she had any regrets about that. She never said, if she did, but I realised later, after she’d died, that I really hadn’t known her that well at all. I don’t know whether she had regrets about any of the stuff she did. What I do know is that she loved you very much, and while I disagreed with some of her particular methods, she definitely believed that the things she did once you were born were done out of love for you and protection for you and I both. That said, I didn’t love Mary anymore. The only reason I ever went back was because you were on the way. I had a responsibility to you.” 

It’s exactly what she feared. “So you left Father over me,” Rose says, the back of her throat closing. “Didn’t he ever – resent me for that?” 

“What? God, no! Of _course_ not!” Dad says, shocked. “Listen: your Father and I were – it took us a ridiculously long time to figure ourselves out. We weren’t together, in the sense that we are now, during the time when I was staying here after he was – after Mary shot him. I was staying here as a friend, as his best friend who happened to be a doctor. I didn’t want him left in a hospital, where he might not have been safe, and where he would have gone stir-crazy and driven the staff half out of their wits.” 

“He might not have been safe, because Mary could have come back to finish the job, you mean,” Rose says pointedly, and Dad winces and nods. 

“Yes,” he says. “Precisely. But we weren’t a couple then. We hadn’t quite got there yet. Nothing had ever happened. Nothing had ever been said. It’s not as though I left your mother for him, then left him for her. It wasn’t like that at all.” 

Rose shakes her head. “I don’t understand,” she says, her throat still tight. “Then how was it, exactly? I need to understand this. I just don’t – I thought you loved him.” 

Dad’s mouth tightens unhappily. For a moment he turns away to busy himself with pouring their tea. Over it, he says, “I did, Rose. It took me awhile to see it plainly, but I did. But – it was complicated, all right? You know Sherlock: he’s an incredibly unique person. And I’d never been in that sort of relationship with another man before. It took me awhile to be able to accept my own feelings about it. I don’t expect you to understand; some days I still barely understand it, myself.” 

Rose thinks of saying that she might understand this a little too well at the moment, but doesn’t. She accepts the cup of tea from him, her thoughts still churning in her head. The cup is warm and the tea smells like cinnamon and Christmas, steam rising from its surface. 

Dad goes on, sitting back again, his voice a little calmer. “You know the whole story of Moriarty forcing Sherlock to fake his suicide,” he says. “I didn’t know he was alive, or I’d have never allowed myself to have been remotely persuaded by – by Mary. She was there, I was lonely, and she was very persuasive. By the time Sherlock came back, it was too late; I was already engaged. If I had known then, if I’d been able to be completely honest with myself, I would have broken it off then. But I was… it took me a long time. I was stupid. And Sherlock had never loved anyone of any sort before, either. Neither of us knew what to do, how to handle it, and neither of us knew that the other felt that way. It wasn’t until after a lot more damage had been done – and I’ll admit that much of that was inflicted by me upon him – that we finally managed to see the light. It was Sherlock who finally took the first step, too. Said it out loud at last. Once that happened, the rest of it just followed naturally, but it took us over five long, hard, painful years to get there.” Dad shakes his head and lifts his tea to his mouth, blowing on it. He takes a sip, then adds, “We both hurt one another. We decided years ago to stop trying to assign how much blame to allot to whom, but I’ve always known that there was more blame on my side. Lucky for me, Sherlock refuses to acknowledge that or dwell on the past. And I understand that: our present is so much better that there’s no point in rehashing the past over and over again. It’s ancient history at this point. We’ve loved each other more than I ever knew was even possible ever since that night he first had the guts to break our years of silence and bring it out into the light.” 

Rose takes a sip of her tea, trying to digest all of this. 

Dad glances at her. “And as for you, resentment didn’t even come into the equation. It was never a question of my choosing one person over the other. You are my daughter and I would never have run out on you, left Mary to raise you alone, regardless of my feelings for her. It was the hardest thing in the world for me to leave your father when I did, but nothing had ever been established between us. I didn’t know he felt the same way, and I wasn’t even clear in my own head about how I felt about him. Plus, he had encouraged me to do it, to go back to Mary for your sake. I was a mess, to put it mildly, both before and after Mary’s death, and it was Sherlock who constantly reminded me of my duty toward you and helped me do it. Even before we were together, he would encourage me to bring you here for the weekend, after I’d moved back in. We all talked about the work we do and how this house was never the ideal place to raise an infant, but it was Gran and Granddad’s idea to have you live with them the bulk of the time. It seemed like the best option, and once Sherlock and I were together, it felt like all the pieces of the puzzle coming together. It was you who brought us all together, made us a family rather than individuals and couples in our own islands. You’ve been the centre of our universe ever since. I hope you know that: how loved you are, how important. There was never any resentment whatsoever, sweetheart.” 

Rose feels the backs of her eyes prickle. “Okay,” she says, looking down into the amber tea in her cup. “I just – it made me question everything, you know?” 

“Understandably,” Dad says. “I can only imagine how many questions you must have had. I hope Mycroft was – well, as gentle as he’s capable of being. He’s terribly fond of you, though, you know. He loves you, as unfathomable as the concept of Mycroft loving anyone is. You’re his only niece and he takes his responsibility to you rather obsessively.” 

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Rose says dryly, and Dad laughs. 

“I’ll bet you have,” he says emphatically. He touches her knee. “Ask me anything you need to know. Absolutely anything.”

Rose thinks about this, taking another long sip of tea as she attempts to collect her scattered thoughts. “Am I like her?” she asks, very directly. “I don’t want to be.” 

Dad’s mouth twitches a little. “Did Mycroft show you his file on her?” 

She nods. “It was… hard to read.” 

“Quite.” Dad drains his cup and pours himself a refill. “Yeah. It was an enormous shock, finding out who and what she really was. You think you know someone, and then… yeah.” He puts the teapot down and lifts his cup to his lips, blowing on it again as he thinks. “There are small things about you that remind me of Mary,” he says, a bit pensively. “But you know, the medical community has never really come to a decisive agreement on the whole nature versus nurture theory. Some of the things that make me think of Mary could easily just be – you. Watching you grow up has made me realise that people come into the world with their own personalities. You know Gran and Granddad. Who could ever have imagined that their children could have come from them? All three of them, honestly. Mycroft, then Sherlock, and – well, happily for you, you never met Eurus. Be thankful. Your quick wit, though. Just for example. That could have come from Mary, but it could just as easily have come from Sherlock. Sometimes I think you’re more like him than you are me. The two of you are the Capricorns, the scientists, the thinkers. You’ve picked up many of his mannerisms, but then at other times, I also see a lot of myself in you. My stubbornness, for example. My work ethic – Sherlock cruised through all of his courses in uni and rarely needed to actually study like the rest of us mortals. Then again, I also see plenty of Granddad’s mildness in you, a trait which the rest of us noticeably lack, and then there are flashes of Gran, too. Her practicality, for instance. Nurture wins the argument for me, but I’m no expert.” 

“But her negative traits,” Rose persists. “Do you see any of that in me?” 

Dad’s brows lift. “Well, have you been paid to kill anyone?” he asks, very dryly and obviously rhetorically. He shakes his head and glances sideways at her. “No, Rose. No. Mary’s worst qualities were that she would do anything for money, quite aside from morality, compassion, or legality. She was a skilled manipulator who could make almost anyone do almost anything for her. And she was a liar. A compulsive one, maybe. It went with the territory of her profession, but she never stopped. You, on the other hand, are none of those things. Not even a bit. You have a strong moral centre, something which Gran and Granddad in particular did a wonderful job of cultivating in you. You know that Father is rather specifically anti-religious, for all his love of Christmas, and for me the most that can be said is that I’m a _very_ lapsed Catholic. We were nevertheless always pleased that Gran and Granddad took you to Sunday school at – what’s that nice little church in town, St. Michael’s?” When Rose nods, he goes on. “You don’t have a manipulative bone in your body, and you’re refreshingly honest and straightforward. When you have an opinion, you give it – but not without considering whether it’s kind to share it, whether it’s the right time to give it, whether it’s necessary, et cetera. I’m – intensely proud of the person you’ve become,” Dad says, reaching for her hand and gripping it, his eyes dark and very serious. “And it’s not something that I think any one of us can take credit for. We’ve done our best, the four of us, but I also think it’s just the person you are. Does that help?” 

Rose attempts to absorb all of this, her throat still tight. She nods, though, squeezing Dad’s hand. “Thanks for – all that.” She finally finishes her tea, which is almost cold. “But is that why you always kept your work so firmly separated away from when I was here with you? Were you afraid that it might… I don’t know, influence me in some way? Or was it just for my safety?” 

“Honestly?” Dad says, rubbing a hand over his chin. “It was a bit of both, if you want to know. If we only consider the nature side of the argument, both Mary and I have a lot of failings that I never wanted to see passed on to you. I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie. Come to think of it, we could just include Sherlock and the nurture side of this to the whole thing, too. None of the three of us are exactly textbook-standard parent material, if you get my drift. Sherlock and I have our work, and it’s dangerous, and we’re the sort of people who suit that work well. A little too well, even. Mary was what she was. I’m not saying that none of us have or had our good points, too, but there was that to be considered. You know that Father used to have a drug habit on top of all that. I’ve definitely had phases of drinking too much, and you know that Harry struggled with an alcohol problem for years. We’re flawed people, and we neither wanted to give you any of our flaws, nor did we want you endangered by our work, or by Mary’s past. We thought that the best thing to do would be to let you grow up a little apart from it. Plus Gran and Granddad were still castigating themselves over the way Eurus turned out – which wasn’t their fault in any way, for the record. Eurus was a psychopath, and no one, amateur or professional, could handle her. They were dying to have you, and it seemed to be the safest option for you. I won’t hide that it also made it possible for us to go on with our work, too. We would have had to give that up entirely. So, we found what we felt was the best balance, but it was with your best interests first and foremost. If you’re asking if we were afraid you would grow up to be your mother, no. Maybe there was a shade of that, but it was a very secondary notion. We just didn’t want you to pay the price for any of the choices of your parents, as far as we can control that. There was always the possibility that some past choice of ours – any of ours – could come back to haunt you. We’ve done our very best to contain it as much as possible, but as to it influencing you in negative ways, no. We weren’t specifically worried about that.” 

Rose lets go of Dad’s hand and puts it around her empty cup. “Okay. Thanks for explaining. I do feel better. About that, at least…” She trails off. 

Dad frowns at her. “What do you mean?” He finally remembers her tea and pours her a fresh, hot cup. 

“Thanks,” Rose says. She pauses. “The rest of my life is a mess, too, apart from school. That’s fine. But… well, Chris broke up with me. I think, at least. And I thought it was – I don’t know, more serious than that, that it wasn’t just… something he could drop so quickly. I feel like a naïve idiot. And like I don’t even know who I am anymore.” 

“What?” Dad’s frown deepens. “Sweetheart, what makes you say that? What happened? Is this just because of your talk with Mycroft? All this stuff about Mary?” 

“No…” Rose clears her throat, willing herself not to flush. She might as well just tell him. He and Father have always been easy to talk to, free of judgement or fussy moral standards like other people’s parents. “It’s just… well, I slept with him. And it wasn’t – I mean, it was nice, but not – well – satisfying, if you know what I’m saying.” 

She squints at him and Dad clears his throat in turn. “I do, rather,” he says. “That’s unfortunate. Did he hurt you?” 

“No,” she says quickly. “But it was just – all about him, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Dad says. “Right with you. What a jerk!” 

“I thought so,” Rose says, a bit forlornly, and Dad gives a huff of laughter. 

“I take it he didn’t like having that pointed out,” he says. 

“Not really, no,” Rose replies, her lip twisting. “But I mean, it had been three times, and all three of them were like that. It was like he’d forgotten that it was even a thing to consider!” 

“Then you’re well shot of him,” Dad says firmly. “We liked him well enough from what we saw over coffee that time, but there are basic standards, like mutual consideration for your partner.” He reaches over and ruffles her hair. “His loss, honey. You’re better off. If I’m not wrong, that would have been your first, yes? Unless I’ve missed something along the way.” 

“No, it was,” Rose agrees. She hesitates. “The thing is… something else happened, and it’s just adding to my whole confusion over who I am and all that.” 

Dad’s brows go up again. “Oh? What’s that?” 

She swallows, then makes herself say it. “On Friday night I went to a party, and… there was this girl there. We were playing Spin the Bottle and I kept getting her, and…” This is harder to say than the other part. A lot harder. Rose clears her throat and keeps her eyes on her tea. “After, I, erm. We – hooked up. At the party.” 

If Dad is shocked by this, he doesn’t show it. “Ah,” he says carefully. “I see. Yes. That could definitely be a contributing factor in the rest of the generalised confusion. How are you feeling about it now?” 

“Confused,” Rose says, very honestly, relieved to just have it out in the open now. “The thing is… I liked it. I liked her. It was kind of everything I wished it had been with Chris. But that wasn’t, and this was, so… I don’t know whether it’s them or me, or what that means I am, or what.” She appeals to him. “You must know something about that, don’t you? I mean – you had girlfriends before Father, and even Mary – how do you just – know? Who you are, what you like, all of that?” 

Dad makes a rueful face. “I might be the worst person to ask, honestly. For me… well, it’s difficult to say. Before Sherlock… there were others, other men, I mean, who got my attention, but I hadn’t quite admitted to myself that it was what it was, an attraction, and none of them meant enough to me to push me into trying anything. I really wasn’t open to it, and I frankly admire that you _were_ open to giving something a try. That it wasn’t a huge, identity-threatening problem for you. Having a bit of confusion about it now is only natural, I would think. For me, it was only ever your father who made me want go there, who mattered enough to me to override the rest of it. He’s been a… a singularity, I guess you could say, in every single way. I’ve never loved someone the way I love him, male or female. He’s been unique in every way there is, for me. I’ve never gone back and forth, dated a woman here, a man there. It was always women until Sherlock, and I’ve never looked back. But you’re only just beginning to get into this aspect of your life. There’s no need to make firm decisions about your preferences until you’ve had a little more experience. I don’t really believe in labels, anyway.” 

Rose turns this over in her head. “So you don’t think that having liked it so much more with a girl means that I’m a lesbian or something?” 

“Not at all,” Dad says firmly. “No one says you have to make one choice and stick with it for the rest of your life. Sexuality is a fluid thing, or can be for some people, evidently. Besides which, you’ve only just begun this phase of your adult life. There’s a whole world out there for you to experience before you need to make any decisions about that. Better to keep yourself open to the possibilities than end up like me – a bit stuck in one idea of how I defined myself, to the point of nearly missing out on the one person I was ever meant to be with.” 

“What about Father?” Rose asks, suddenly curious. “He always says you’re the only one who ever mattered, but was there ever anyone else? Did he always know that it was men, for him?” 

Dad smiles fondly. “If he was an exception for me, it’s even truer the other way around. There wasn’t anybody before me, for him. I was the only one, full stop. Listen, though: a good person to have a chat about all of this might be your Aunt Carolyn. She’s bisexual and was pretty accustomed to dating on both sides of the field before she married Harry. She always said it was the person the mattered, not their gender. If it comes to that, gender itself is pretty fluid for some people. But you might like to ask her about all this sometime.” 

Rose thinks about this and nods. “Yeah. Maybe.” 

Dad fills her cup again, emptying the teapot. “So tell me about this girl: what was she like? What’s her name?” 

Rose shrugs a little, still feeling a bit self-conscious about it. “I don’t really know her at all. Her name is Cairo. I don’t even know whose friend she was.” 

“Cairo,” Dad repeats. “That’s a bit exotic. Was she pretty?” 

She nods. “Very. She’s taller than me, a redhead with long hair. She was the one everyone was excited to kiss during Spin the Bottle.” 

Dad grins. “But you’re the one who landed her,” he says, with a bit of a smirk. “Way to go!” He holds up his hand to high-five her and Rose is embarrassed, but does it anyway, feels her cheeks heat. “Any chance of seeing her again?” Dad adds, casually. 

Rose bites her lip. “I don’t know. I doubt it. She’s a year ahead of me, so we’re not in the same classes. And I wouldn’t even know how to contact her.” 

“But the person who hosted the party probably might,” Dad points out. 

She doesn’t commit to this one way or another. “Maybe.” 

Dad puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her into a hug. “Well, I’m truly sorry about Chris. What a prick. And how dare he break up with you! You should have been the one to send him packing!”

Rose puts her head down on Dad’s shoulder and hugs back. “It’s just been a lot. It was right after I got attacked, and found out about Mary, too.” 

Dad’s arm squeezes, but he says, “Yes, about this attack – I take it Mycroft has the details? I don’t want to ask and make you relive it just now.” 

Rose nods against his shoulder. “He knows all about it.” 

“We’ll talk to him, then,” Dad promises. “Meanwhile, I know it’s going to take you awhile to process the rest of it, but do try to let go of it and just enjoy your holidays a little. You work so hard the rest of the year.”

“I’ll try,” Rose says. “But it is a lot.” She considers, then adds, “I’m glad I know, though. I understand why you didn’t tell me. But I’m glad that someone did.” 

“So am I,” Dad says. “And – Mycroft was right; it _was_ a kindness on his part that it was him who did it. I’m glad it’s out of the way. You’re old enough to know, but we always knew it would be difficult. I’m sorry that it is what it is. That we, your parents, all three of us, are the people we are.” 

Rose hugs him fiercely. “I wouldn’t have you be any other way,” she says, and means it. 

“Yeah?” Dad sounds a little uncertain. 

“Yes,” she says firmly. 

“Well, ditto,” Dad tells her. Downstairs the door opens. “Oh good, it’s your father,” Dad says, pressing a kiss into her hair. “We’ll make him put the kettle back on for a fresh pot of tea.” 

Father arrives in the doorway as Rose giggles at this and instantly wants to know what he’s missed. “What’s this? What’s going on? Are you two canoodling without me?” 

Dad smiles serenely at him. “Of course.” 

Father comes over, gloved hands on his hips through his coat, surveying the scene. “And I’ll bet you’ve drunk all the tea, too,” he says accusingly. 

“We have, so put the kettle on, would you?” Dad asks, still smiling. 

Father mock scowls. “Oh, I’m permitted to serve you, am I?” 

“Yes, but get down here and kiss me first,” Dad orders. 

Father glares at him. “Rose first,” he states, inserting himself between her feet and the coffee table to bend and kiss her on the forehead. “Hello, _Rosa davidii_ ,” he says fondly, his eyes crinkling down at her. He leans over to Dad. “John,” he says formally, and lets Dad pull him down by one of the lapels of his coat with his free arm for a long kiss. They’re both grinning after. 

“Kettle,” Dad says again, firmly. 

Father rolls his eyes and goes obediently into the kitchen to make them all some more tea, filling and switching on the kettle. He reappears a moment later. “Well?” he prompts Rose. 

She’s been searching her memory, meanwhile. “Er, also known as Father David’s Rose, a hardly winter species that originates in China, usually pale pink?” 

Father beams at her. “Very good! And why did I choose it today?” 

Rose frowns. “Because it’s winter?” she tries, hazarding a guess. 

“And,” Father prompts. 

“And… ” It comes to her. “Because the Latin means ‘rose of David’ and the Davidic reference connects to all of the Advent stuff, with the descendant of David, the town of David, all of that?” 

“Brilliant,” Father pronounces, tremendously pleased. “John, she’s going to win a Nobel Prize one of these days. See if she doesn’t. Now: I’ll spare you the very interesting details about the corpse I just saw in favour of discussing who would like to eat what for supper. Any thoughts?” 

Dad says something in response and Rose answers on autopilot. Something within her seems to have relaxed a little, though, some tension deflated at last. It’s going to be okay. It’s still a bit of a complicated mess and she’s still got a lot of mixed feelings, but overall, it’s going to be okay. 

*** 

Christmas ends up being nice, really nice. Rose is able to relax a little, mostly by concentrating on the events and people around her and trying not to think too much about the rest. Her long conversation with Dad earlier in the week did much to reassure her, but he mentioned again later that night that he knew that while Father had worked through whatever he needed to work through in order to come to his decision to forgive him for having brought Mary Morstan into their lives, that Rose would need to have her own process and the rest of it, and reminded her to ask either of them anything she needs to know for that to happen. She can recognise that it was and remains a generous offer on Dad’s part. She knows that this entire subject opens him in particular up to a lot of scrutiny that he probably thought he’d left in the past. She can see that he’s doing it for her sake, putting his own feelings about it second, and sees that this is an extension of his willingness to be there for her in whatever way she needs. 

“I’m no more and no less your father than Sherlock is,” he’d finished. “The biology isn’t what counts, and that goes double for who you are, Rose. You are yourself, and we’re all given the right to define ourselves however we want or need to. You have that freedom. And Father and I will be right there with you, every step of the way. No matter where you decide to go, we’ll be there.” 

She’d hugged him tightly for a very long time then, tears prickling her eyes and throat. “I love you, Dad,” she’d said, and he’d said it back, his arms around her. 

The next morning they all took the train up to Hardwicke, to Gran and Granddad’s, their house brimming with the scents of baking and pine, the sitting room decked out with holly, a fire crackling in the fireplace. And for a time, she was able to just leave it all to one side. And it was a good holiday. Uncle Mycroft came up on Christmas Eve so that they could open their gifts before eating breakfast, as they always have. As with every other year, Dad says something about how maybe next year, they could all sleep a little longer, eat breakfast, and _then_ open their gifts, but Rose knows they’ll indulge her in this for as long as she likes. For the first time in her life, this year she sees it, sees their mutual indulgence, and thinks that perhaps next year they could do that, after all. She doesn’t need to be indulged like a child. They go skating in the village and she sees a lot of her friends from school, catching up on what’s been happening in their first years of uni all around. Gran and Granddad’s friends come on Boxing Day, older people from the village that she’s known all her life, and they’re all terribly pleased to see her. Dad and Father go for a long walk one afternoon while she’s doing a puzzle with Granddad, and she suspects that they’re slipping away to have a long talk, one they couldn’t have while she’s about, but she tries not to think of this. She thinks of Father’s initial resistance to the very notion of Chris and wonders how he’ll react. Dad will tell him about Cairo, too, she knows, and she wonders what he’ll think of this. Dad, who has dated many women (though possibly not the ‘hundreds’ Father likes to cite, rolling his eyes every time he says it), might be more able to sympathise with an attraction to a woman, whereas Father has only ever been able to see the appeal of Dad, apparently. She would hate him to think less of her for it – especially when she still doesn’t even know how to defend it or what she thinks of it herself. 

Later the following afternoon, she and Gran are chopping vegetables for a ratatouille for dinner. Gran is slicing an aubergine into bite-sized chunks as Rose peels cloves of garlic to mince. “So, I hear this Chris turned out to be a bit of a heel, then,” Gran says musingly, breaking their companionable silence. When Rose looks at her in surprise, she shrugs. “Your father mentioned it. Sherlock, I mean. I’m sorry to hear it. That always stings, doesn’t it? Not just the ending itself, or the bitterness of how it came about, but your disappointment that the other person wasn’t who he seemed in the end.” 

Her words strike a chord. Rose nods, carefully slicing the ends off the clove she’s holding. “Absolutely. That’s exactly it.” She peels off the papery skin. “I didn’t know you knew.” 

“Not my place to pry,” Gran says briskly. “I thought that if you didn’t want to talk about it, I wouldn’t make you. I also thought I wouldn’t bring it up before Christmas, put a damper on things by reminding you of it. But I do hope you know you can always talk to me. To Granddad, too, of course. We won’t judge or interfere.” 

“I know that,” Rose assures her, looking up from her garlic. “And I’m grateful, Gran. You were always the one I talked to about boys and that, before. This was just – a lot all once.” 

“What with finding out about Mary. Quite right,” Gran says, her brow furrowing a little. “Mycroft told me about that on Christmas night, after the rest of you’d gone to bed. Not much, but he explained about the attack. How upsetting that must have been! I quite agree with your fathers that none of us wanted to poison you against Mary, so Granddad and I always held our tongues, too. I never liked her, though. I’ll just say that. I can see why your father might have liked her, but I could never have forgiven her for what she did – to both of them. Sherlock tells me that you and John have discussed it, and that John still gives himself too much of the blame. Do remember that my son can be a most difficult person when he takes the notion into that stubborn head of his. He always knew how to operate his brain, but not his heart. People think he hasn’t got one because his brain is so much at the forefront, but it’s there, like anyone else’s, and he did his part in making it so difficult for the two of them to finally get where they are now. Don’t forget that.” 

“Right,” Rose says, chopping her pile of garlic. “I haven’t. Dad said a lot of stuff about how I can choose to be whoever I want, but I still – she’s a part of me, you know? And I’ve never known that part, or what it’s supposed to mean, what that says about who I am, if anything. How am I supposed to react to finding out that my mother killed people for a living, that she worked for the very people that Dad and Father have worked against all their career? I don’t know why I never wondered more. It just never came up, I suppose. I had all of you and didn’t need anyone else. She was never anything more to me than a concept, a biological source. And I never wanted to – to value that biology over the actual parenting I had in Father and Dad. And you and Granddad, too! Does that make any sense?” 

“Of course it does,” Gran tells her, pointing at the casserole pot with her knife, so Rose tips her cutting board of garlic into it. “You can’t make any forward progress if you don’t know where you came from. Just remember that it’s only one element, and that Mary Morstan had her good points, too. I’m not sure that they outweighed her bad ones, but I also didn’t know her very well. I’m trying to be fair. What I do know is that she loved you.” 

Rose thinks of what Dad said about disagreeing with some of Mary’s methods of showing that love or demonstrating good parenthood and thinks that she should ask what he meant by that sometime. “I’m not trying to either romanticise her or demonise her,” she says, reaching for an onion and unwrapping it from its crackling skin. “If anything, I just need to understand her motivations so that I avoid making similar life choices to hers. I read Uncle Mycroft’s file on her. That just isn’t someone I have any interest in becoming.” 

“Of course not,” Gran says brusquely. “But you never could be. That isn’t you at all.” 

Just hearing her say this, as firmly and unshakeably as Gran has, makes Rose feeling suddenly much better about the entire thing. She glances at Gran. “You’re sure about that?” 

“Entirely certain,” Gran says. She unloads her board of aubergine chunks and reaches for a courgette now. “As for understanding her motivations, that’s just something that you may never know. I doubt any person alive knew her well enough to be able to say what those were. It’s perfectly all right if she remains something of a mystery. For my part, I will never understand the mystery of who my daughter was, or how she became that way. What part I played in that, if any. I surely must have, though. I’ve finally learned to stop blaming myself, but I will still never understand what happened. Why she turned out that way. We aren’t given that satisfaction, perhaps. Perhaps the best we can do with the information we have is to let it go.” She chops the courgette neatly and briskly, then fixes Rose with her warm, blue eyes. “It will take time, but that’s all you need to do, Rose. Learn to let it go.” 

*** 

It’s New Year’s Eve and she’s back at Baker Street with Dad and Father. At the moment it’s just Father, though. Dad is off at a dinner for former residents at St. Bart’s, and spouses and children weren’t invited, so she and Father ordered in Chinese and ate it in front of the fire in the chairs. The plan is to burn some driftwood when Dad gets home, and open a bottle of champagne. It’s their yearly tradition, though they’ve both assured her multiple times that if she’d rather go out with her friends, she’s perfectly welcome to do so. Rose did get invited to a party at Melody’s, a girl from her microbiology and environment class, who was at Leah’s and was also in the Spin the Bottle game. Rose decided against getting herself drunk with that particular group of people again quite so quickly; she’s still recovering from the embarrassment of everyone knowing what she did with Cairo. There’s also the double question of whether either Chris or Cairo will be at the party, and at the moment she’d rather avoid them both. So: she’s at home with her parents and doesn’t feel the slightest bit ashamed of being there. 

The fire is crackling and she and Father are sipping the Shiraz that he opened for dinner. “Penny for your thoughts,” he says after awhile, his voice resonant in its low range, a bit whimsical with the outdated expression. 

Rose comes out of her slightly melancholy thoughts and steals a look at him, but he’s gazing pensively into the fire. For a moment, she doesn’t answer. “You and Dad talked,” she says. It isn’t a question, but it’s sort of open-ended. 

Father doesn’t take his eyes from the fire. “Yes. Of course.” 

“He told you everything?” Rose is grateful to hear how levelly her voice comes out. 

“Yes,” Father says again. Now he turns his head, his slightly-slanted eyes bright in the firelight. “Problem?” 

“No. I figured he would,” Rose says. “I don’t mind you knowing. It’s easier not to have to say it all twice. Or to both of you at once.” 

Father’s expression doesn’t alter. “I’m glad he was there when you needed to talk. I wish you’d come to us right away, after the attack. You could have come that night, or the next day. Or after Mycroft picked you up, I suppose. I wish you had. But I understand if you needed time.” 

“It was a lot to process,” Rose says. She turns the wineglass in her hands, half-full. She still thinks of it as half-full, not half-empty, it occurs to her. What does that say about her? “It still is. It’s a lot to accept.” 

Father regards her, his gaze steady and blue. “John says that you had a lot of questions about Mary, and about – the two of us. Did he manage to answer them all? Is there anything you want to ask me?” 

She takes a sip of the spicy wine, full-bodied and rich in her mouth. Father’s always had wonderful taste in wine. Dad’s taste doesn’t go much further than ‘red’ or ‘white’, though he always has a definite opinion about what he prefers. “I think he answered most of them,” she says, frowning a little. The legs of the wine are leaving streaks on the sides of the glass. “I’m not questioning your choices. And I think I understand them.” 

There’s a _but_ in there, unspoken, and Father catches it. “John says you asked whether I resented you over him leaving again after I was shot,” he says, a bit intensely. “I didn’t, you know. I never have. You were the one very good thing that came of all that mess. I hope you know that.” Rose opens her mouth, but Father goes on, overriding her next question. “It wasn’t your fault that you were born when you were, or at all. It just was what it was. John had a duty to you that overrode his personal preferences. Even I had a duty to you, from long before you were born: I’d sworn a vow to protect you, and that was before I even became your father. There was never any question of resentment. I understood that he needed to do what he needed to do, and as I had never expected anything to happen in terms of the relationship we now have, I can tell you that I fully expected him to go back. I encouraged it.” 

“But tell me honestly,” Rose presses, letting her gaze bore into his. “How did you feel when he actually left? Expectations aside. How did you really feel at the time? I need to know this, Father. I know how you feel about it now, but I need to know how you felt then, if you’re willing to tell me.” 

Father’s brows rise, the hollows of his cheeks deepening in the shadows of the room. “So that you can decide whether or not you can forgive him for having chosen you over me at the time?” 

The question cuts a little, but Rose nods, her throat tight yet again. “Were you hurt?” she asks, her voice quiet. Father hesitates, but she waits, her eyes on him. 

He ducks his chin. “Yes,” he says, low. “At the time – terribly. Even though it was half my own idea, my own – impetus. I knew then that I loved him. But I also knew that he could not have possibly made any other choice and remained the man that I loved. Can you understand that?” 

Rose swallows. “I think so.” 

Father looks at her for a long, intense moment. “The world has betrayed John’s trust over and over again. You and I are the two people who have shown him at last that it’s safe for him to allow himself to love us. It took me a long time to earn that trust, and I did so only after having broken it myself, repeatedly. Some of it wasn’t entirely my fault. Some of it was. The decisions he made during the chaotic time in his life following my perceived suicide and the advent of Mary Morstan must be weighed against his brokenness at the time. It was a sacrifice for him to go back to her. He had no reason to believe that there was any hope for our relationship to ever happen, and the blame for that is at least partly mine as well.” 

This does set things in a slightly different light. Rose thinks of Dad, his love for Father something he believed had to be tightly suppressed, kept to himself, because it would never be deemed an acceptable way for him to feel. She can understand his confusion about it. His decision to go back to Mary now seems heroic rather than an act of desertion and now she feels badly for even questioning it – especially when she was the one who benefitted from it. “I see,” she says, though her feelings are still swirling within her. 

Father looks into the fire. “Everything changed when he came back,” he says musingly. “After Eurus. By that point, Mary was gone and there was nothing left to keep it from happening at last, except ourselves. And for once, we stopped mucking it up. The first time he kissed me, I was sitting right here in this chair, and in that moment, the rest of it stopped mattering. It simply became the past. John and I had a complicated beginning, but there is nothing complicated about it now, and you are the least complicated piece in it all. You’re what brought us all together. Did he tell you that?” 

Rose nods, her throat still tight. “I want to believe that. It’s just – when I found out about Mary, who she was, all the stuff she did – I felt a bit like I never should have been born.” 

“Nonsense,” Father says instantly. “No one ‘should not be born’. You’re the best thing in all our lives. And nothing will ever change that, so put that notion out of your head at once, _Rosa sine spina_.” 

She doesn’t recognise the species name, but is too distracted to ask. “I just – I don’t want to suddenly turn out like that,” she says, her voice trembling. 

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Father vows. “You’re stronger than that.” He sets his wine aside and bends forward in his chair. “Listen to me, daughter mine: you are not bound by your mother’s choices. Nor are you bound by John’s, nor mine. All three of us are or were incredibly flawed, imperfect human beings. We’ve all made choices that we regret – or at least I can speak for John and I there. My parents, too. You are responsible for your choices alone. No one’s past has the power to dictate that for them, and the choices you’ve already made in your short life so far tell me clearly that you have already chosen your path, and in so doing, become better than any of us.”

She’s crying now, the tears tracking hotly down her cheeks. “Are you sure?” she asks, hating the way her voice is wobbling. 

“Very sure.” Father opens his arms. “Come here.” 

Still crying, Rose uncurls herself and goes to him, and he pulls her into his lap as though she’s a child again. At the moment, she feels like one, crying into the collar of his dressing gown as he strokes her hair and kisses her forehead. After a little, the tears spend themselves and she sits up, wiping her eyes on the back of her jumper sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she says, feeling like a wreck. “I didn’t mean to fall apart.” 

“Of course,” Father says, dismissing it. “It’s been a bit of a coming-of-age year for you: starting this new phase of life as an adult, your first flat. Independence. First boyfriend, even if that didn’t turn out as well as we’d hoped.”

Rose sighs. “No,” she agrees. She falls silent, musing a little, then remembers what he said before. “What was it you called me, there? I didn’t recognise the species.” 

“What? Oh, that.” Father gives a short laugh. “Actually, that wasn’t a species. It was a Christmas-y thing, a reference from a piece of music. Well, more than just that one piece, but I know it particularly from Britten’s _Hymn to the Virgin_. ‘Rosa sine spina’.” He looks at her, waiting for her to work out the Latin. 

Rose frowns. “Rose without – spine?” 

“Thorns,” Father corrects. “It’s a reference to the Virgin Mary, the thornless rose, meant to indicate her purity, her lack of sin.”

Her throat tightens again. If Dad told him about the break-up, he surely also told Father about the rest of it, and Cairo, too. “You’re sure that’s the best name for me?” she asks, rather dubiously. She can’t quite meet his eyes. 

To her surprise, Father’s arms close around her again. “Of course,” he says gently. “Of _course_. What you do with your body and with whom you choose to do it has no bearing on any of that – your worth. Virginity is a vastly overrated and outdated concept. It’s all just transport, anyway. If it helps, you can feel free to remember that I was still in full possession of my own until the age of forty-one, and it in no way defined nor hindered me as an adult. What did hinder me was not having allowed myself to be open to sentiment, to love. But neither the participation in nor the abstinence from sex has anything to do with anything else. Remember that: whether you’re thinking about your genetic roots or your expression of sexuality or your career or anything else, how you choose to define yourself is your choice to make and no one else’s. And, barring you starting a nuclear war or committing mass genocide, I can safely say that nothing you choose will ever make either John or I, or Gran or Granddad, see you any differently whatsoever. Your life is your own, to make of it what you will. Understood?” 

Rose nods. “Yeah. I think so.” 

Father smiles at her. “Good,” he says approvingly. “Now: if you’ll permit yourself the evil carbohydrates, I’ve bought some popcorn to pop. It’s very high in fibre. I’m expecting John home any moment now, so we might as well get it started. What do you think?” 

Rose laughs and gets to her feet. “Sure,” she says. She picks up her wine and drains the rest of it, and sure enough, there’s the door downstairs. Father is uncanny that way, but she loves him for it. She loves them both, and her heart feels noticeably lighter all of a sudden. “Let’s go,” she says, nodding toward the kitchen even as Dad’s booted footsteps come clomping up the stairs. It’s New Year’s Eve, and there’s going to be champagne. She’s come out on the other side of this mess at last, and it’s time to celebrate. 

*** 

The winter term begins, and with it, a new onslaught of courses, new mixes of people in them. Rose has only one class with Chris, to her relief, but she ignores him resolutely and privately determines to best him on every paper and exam they take. Leah, Robin, and Melody are in several of her other classes, which is nice. No one asks her about Cairo; either she was overestimating how much importance anyone else gave it, or they’ve all forgotten about it over the holidays. As for Cairo herself, Rose spots her now and then in the corridors, always with a crowd between them. Cairo is just as pretty in jeans and t-shirts as she was at the party, but it doesn’t matter because she seems not to notice Rose at all. Rose tells herself not to feel stung by it. Cairo’s so beautiful that she’s probably quite used to being able to pick up anyone she likes. Rose was probably one in a long list of similar conquests. Still, though. It’s not as though their little encounter ended on any sort of negative note. There’s no reason they can’t be friendly now, or even properly friends, Rose thinks. She remembers what Dad said about Chris, _His loss_ , and tells herself that if Cairo wants nothing to do with her now, that’s her loss, too. It feels a little hollow, though. 

So: celibacy it is, she thinks dryly. That’s fine. The winter courses look tough. She’d be better off not getting distracted, anyway. 

If Cairo seems indifferent to her, Chris is openly hostile, glaring at her whenever their paths cross, as though she was the one who broke up with him. Looking back on it, she supposes it was somewhat mutual, but still. The class she has with him is on Wednesday and Friday mornings, and in the second week of January, he’s not there for the Friday class. She notices but doesn’t particularly care one way or another. If anything, it’s a relief not to have his dark head bent over his books there in her peripheral vision the whole time. 

She leaves the class two hours later, thinking about the lecture and what to do about lunch, what to eat. There’s a new deli open just around the corner on King William; maybe they’ll have some carb-free options or a decent salad or something. She could ask for some grilled chicken with it, maybe. Or – 

Without warning, Rose feels herself being grabbed from behind, two rough, gloved hands clamping around her shoulders and shoving her toward the kerb where a black SUV is just pulling in hard. Two more men jump out. They’re wearing dark colours, bullet-proof vests which she recognises from Father’s collection of them, the bulky shape of them obvious through their jackets, and woollen masks over their faces. The three of them (or are there more?) wrestle her into the backseat of the vehicle, despite her best efforts to dig her heels into the ground. “Get her inside!” one of the men snarls. 

Rose looks desperately around for a camera, visible or invisible. “Mycroft!” she shouts, hoping for the first time since she found out about his constant surveillance that someone _has_ been watching her. One of the men pushes her head down hard and slams the door shut. 

The car takes off with a squeal of tires, throwing her back against the seat, and before she can recover from that, say anything, even get her hair out of her eyes, one of the others slaps her across the face. “You’ll pay for that,” he growls, holding a thick finger up in front of her face. “Not a sound out of you. Understood?” 

Rose nods, feeling too shocked and frightened to do anything other than obey. Her heart is pounding and suddenly all of her preoccupation over the holidays seems to stop mattering, while at the same time the new information about her mother matters more than ever. Is this about Mary? She feels a trickle of warmth on her right cheekbone where the man slapped her and realises that she’s bleeding. Oh, God. Where are they taking her? What’s going on? Did Mycroft see or hear her? Is someone going to save her? She took a self-defence class once at school, with everyone else, to her parents’ and grandparents’ satisfaction. She knows how to free herself from a zip-tie, only the one who slapped her is binding her wrists with nylon rope now and she doesn’t think that that method is likely to work for this. She’d think about kicking him in the crotch, only now he’s tying her feet, too. She hopes they won’t gag her. “Where are you taking me?” she asks, her voice coming out strangely calmly in spite of her sweating palms and thumping heart. 

The one seated directly in front of her turns around in his seat. “Be quiet, Rose, or you’re going to get hurt,” he says menacingly, but her mouth falls open upon hearing his voice. 

“ _Chris?_ What the hell!” Shock and betrayal both set in hard. “What are you – ”

The larger man sitting next to her cuffs her across the face again. “Quiet!” he shouts, and pain lances through the left side of Rose’s face this time, tears of pain springing to her eyes. 

“Stop hitting her,” Chris tells him, sounding irritated, and Rose can’t help but feel indignant. Irritation? That’s all she merits, after their two and a half months together? Then again, he’s currently involved in some sort of abduction of her, so she supposes that nothing should surprise her about now. 

The other man doesn’t take this well, though. “You shut up! You’re only here for your information! You do not give me orders!” A stream of something in a very foreign-sounding language follows this. 

Rose hears his accent, too, but can’t place it. Is it – Indian? Pakistani? Afghani? She’s growing scared. “What have I done?” she asks, her voice smaller now, instinctively ducking in case he hits her again. 

He does, and it hurts. He doesn’t respond, and this time Chris doesn’t say anything, either. The driver is mute under his woollen mask, cutting through the traffic with quick, efficient moves. They’re along the south bank of the Thames now, heading east. The traffic is thinning out and the car is moving faster now. Rose presses her bleeding face to the window in desperate hope that one of Mycroft’s cameras somewhere will be able to see it through the shaded glass and send help. Rose thinks of the attack before Christmas, of Chris’s surprisingly quick reaction to it, his unusual-seeming skills. He took on four people at once and came away without a scratch. Belatedly she realises that this should have struck her as more unusual. Even more belatedly, it occurs to her that perhaps the entire thing was a set-up. Why, though? Was it meant to gain her trust? To throw any suspicion off Chris himself? (But why, when she never suspected him of being part of anything like this in the first place?) She remembers saying something about the police station nearby, wanting to go to Uncle Greg, and the way Chris refused, suggesting she get home instead. She also remembers her reaction, wanting him to come up, stay with her, have sex with her. Heat floods her cheeks in backward recrimination. Was _that_ why he did it? To manipulate her into that? But why, again? When it was going that way all along, anyway? Or was that just meant to be a bonus, his reward for having positioned himself close to her, all so that – whatever this is to be could be made to happen? 

She feels lost and upset and angry, but fear is steadily winning out over the rest. The SUV turns, pulling in among a wasteland of factories and storage buildings. There are no other cars about. Her heartbeat speeds up, nearing panic. A number of huge, cylindrical buildings are standing to the right of the road. Is it a power plant or something, she wonders. 

The larger man appears to be listening, then says something to the driver in the same language he used before. 

“I wish you would give me an earpiece,” Chris grumbles. 

The driver smashes his fist down on Chris’s leg without pausing as he pulls around to the far side of a large building to their left. He says something to the larger man, who turns to Rose and, before she can react, jams a canvas sack down over her head and ties it around her throat – not tightly enough to choke, but still tight enough to make her feel anxious about it. The vehicle stops. The other three doors open, then hers. Two of them grab her, hands and feet still bound, and someone picks her up and slings her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, the canvas sack tightening. She coughs but doesn’t dare protest any more vocally; she’s already pushed her luck and the last thing she wants it to get herself shot in the head in some unfindable factory. 

A door is opened and they go inside. She doesn’t know how many of them there are, but there are more than four sets of footsteps now. It’s dark, except for one very bright light in one place. Rose is dumped unceremoniously onto a hard chair, left to struggle to sit upright so that she doesn’t fall off it, fighting against her bound limbs, and then someone unties the canvas hood and yanks it off her head. Her eyes are immediately hit by the light, which is shining directly onto her. She can’t raise her hand to block her eyes, so she squints instinctively, grimacing against the glare. 

She’s in a gigantic space, completely dark except for the blazingly bright lamp shining into her face. One of the men shouts something, and another one walks out of the shadows toward her, his body blocking the light. He is thickset and moustached, not masked like the others. “Who are you?” he barks, in an accented but very fluent English. 

Rose shrinks away from him. “I’m – I’m Rose Watson-Holmes.” 

“Watson-Holmes,” her interrogator repeats as though in disgust. “Who are you really? Who are your parents?” 

She squares her shoulders. “My parents are John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.” _Hence my name_ , she wants to add, but thinks better of it. 

He glares down at her. “No! Your mother, who was your mother?” 

Rose looks warily around for Chris, but can’t spot him among the shadowy figures outside the reach of the light. “My biological mother was Mary Morstan, or that’s the name I have for her, at least. I only became aware of who she was – recently. I don’t know her real name.” 

“Her name does not matter. That you are her daughter does.” Her captor paces back and forth in front of the light, sometimes blocking it, sometimes letting it stream directly into her eyes. _Hurry, Uncle Mycroft_ , she pleads silently and the man comes closer and plants himself in front of her, hands on his hips. “In Chirbalik, the capital, we called her Zaharlovchi: the Poisoner.” He bends and grabs her chin, forcing her head up. “Do you know what Zaharlovchi did to Akhmenistan in 1996?” he demands. 

His face is too close to hers and Rose winces at the violence in his tone. “N-no,” she gets out. “I – I have an idea of what sort of thing it – it could have been, but not – ”

She’s stammering and he loses patience, releasing her face and straightening up. He speaks again, his voice calmer, hands back on his hips. “In 1995, a populist movement overthrew the brutal dictatorship led by Azamat Sobirov. Three parties rose out of the chaos that followed. Each one fragmented the population into camps, bitterly opposed to one another. A new war broke out, until hope came in the person of Zamina Jor’ayeva. She managed to unite the three parties far enough to get them into the same room, to begin the process of making a peace, of building a government. On the day of the peace talks, in spite of every kind of security that could be found, including UN Peacekeepers, Zaharlovchi made her way into the building and killed them all: Zamina and the heads and the seconds-in-command of all three parties. Not one person of significance was left alive. The result was civil war, far bloodier than the first time. Zaharlovchi was photographed, just once. It took us years to identify her. The name we were given was Rosamunde Mary Brewer, but we knew that this was also an alias. We found more names, finally Mary Morstan. Before she departed Chirbalik, she also poisoned the water supply. Someone, probably the Russians, wanted us all dead. Either we killed each other, or the water did the job for us. She poisoned us: poisoned our peace, and poisoned our bodies. Our children. _My_ children.” 

Rose closes her eyes and wishes she could shut this out, forget this. She was just beginning to be able to accept the notion that there was once a woman who gave birth to her, gave her life, who held her and fed her and sang to her, in a way that was true regardless of what else was also true about her. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

Her captor shakes his head. “There can be no apologies now,” he tells her, his voice sober, his face bleak. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a folded piece of paper, and gives it to her, placing it in one of her tied hands. “You will read this,” he informs her starkly. “We will never have our country back. But we will have revenge. One life will not pay for those which she took. But it will mean something to the people of Akhmenistan. I feel no regret for your death. I only regret that your mother is not alive to witness it.” 

Rose wails silently for her parents, for Uncle Mycroft, but no one comes. She cannot unfold the paper with her hands bound. She understands perfectly well why these people want revenge, that her utter lack of involvement means nothing to them. What could she possibly say? 

Her captor snaps his fingers. “Izzat!” 

One of the figures emerges from the shadows. It’s Chris. Or Izzat, she supposes. He comes over and bends, unfolding the paper for her. “You’re to read that once I start filming,” he tells her, without any discernible trace of compassion. 

Rose looks into his face. “This is the only part I don’t understand,” she says quietly. “Obviously you were just positioning yourself to get close to me. Why did you have to pretend you cared about me? Why did you delay this? You could have attacked me at any point.” 

Chris’s eyes flick to hers for a moment, unwavering and unashamed. “Had to wait for all of the arrangements to be in place, sweetheart. And getting to fuck you was just a bonus.” He pats her on the shoulder, gives her a grim smile without any real mirth or warmth to it, and moves back toward the source of the light. He picks up a hand-held video recorder. “All right, Rose. Nice and clear so that everyone can hear you. When you’re ready.” 

Rose looks at him, and in the first time in nearly nineteen years, feels genuine hate. She could say something, but all around her, just outside the pool of light, are heavily armed men who all have a justifiable desire for revenge. She is going to die here. She closes her eyes, then looks down at the paper. “Is this going to be broadcast somewhere?” she asks, her voice beginning to tremble again. 

“Never you mind,” Chris tells her. “Just read what’s on the page.” 

Rose takes a deep, shuddering breath, then begins. Her eyes are watering and she can’t tell whether it’s tears, or just from the light. She isn’t ready to die. There were so many things she wanted to do, one of which was celebrate her nineteenth birthday next week. But if this is the way it’s going to be, then she might as well do it well. “‘My name is Rose Watson-Holmes, daughter of Mary Morstan, the destroyer of Akhmenistan. Because my mother is dead, I have been sentenced to death by the Akhmeni People’s Resistance. I am – ’”

The door bursts open to her left and suddenly the building is filled with shouting. Shouting, and gunfire. Rose instinctively lurches forward so that she’s face down on the concrete floor, the chair clattering down next to her. It’s not much of a shield, but it’s better than just sitting there, waiting for a stray bullet – or a deliberate one – to find its way to her. It seems to go on forever, but really the whole thing lasts perhaps ten minutes – ten nightmarish minutes of men shouting in anguish as they’re hit, cursing in their own language. And Chris – where is Chris? She squeezes her eyes shut and waits. 

“Rose! _Rose!_ ” 

They’re calling her, both Dad and Father, and she’s so relieved to hear their voices that she could cry, only she can’t move, can’t call out, rigid with fear and panic. The gunfire goes on, but there’s considerably less of it, and finally footsteps are pounding across the floor in her direction. 

“Rose!” It’s Dad. He’s there beside her, on his knees, and Father is there now, too, saying her name urgently. “Are you all right?” Dad demands. “They hit you!” 

She finally gets in enough air to burst into tears, her shoulders shuddering. They’re both on their knees, their arms around her. “You came – you finally came,” she sobs. “They were going to kill me!” 

“Not on my watch,” Father snarls, the rage in his voice at odds with the tenderness of his hands where they’re holding her. “John – get her untied. Take my knife!” He kisses the side of her head firmly. “You’re all right, sweetheart. We found you – just in time. I’m sorry it took us so long to come.” 

“Mycroft was on it the moment you were taken,” Dad tells her grimly, sawing through the nylon rope at her wrists first. “They were able to follow the SUV through his secret footage, but only in glimpses and pieces. We came by helicopter with Mycroft’s team, as fast as we possibly could. Thank God these guys weren’t any faster. Thank _God_!” 

“I thought I was going to die here,” Rose says, wiping her face once Dad gets her hands free. She’s still crying, but they’re there, and that’s what counts. 

They exchange an intense look, but Dad shakes his head. “You’re all right now. That’s the main thing. I’ll tear them apart just for those cuts on your face, though.” 

“John,” Father says, a hint of warning in his tone. He pulls Rose to her feet. “Can you stand?” 

“Yes, I’m fine,” she says, her voice still wobbling horribly. Her legs feel weak, but it’s from fear, not from any pain. 

Father puts an arm around his shoulders. “Come,” he says, without explaining, and leads her out of the bright light. “Lights, please,” he requests, calling out to someone or other. 

Whoever it is hears him and switches on the overhead lights. Rose blinks, but her eyes recover quickly and she sees a number of agents either restraining injured men or else bending over dead ones. That’s a shock. Unlike her parents – any of them – she’s never seen a corpse. “Did – did you do this?” she asks, feeling a bit stunned. 

Father glances at her. “A bit of it,” he admits. “We had help, though.” He automatically interpreted her _you_ in the plural, Rose realises, meaning himself and Dad. It occurs to her that, like her mother, they’ve both probably killed people before, too. No wonder they didn’t want her knowing about that. But there’s a big difference, she knows. Killing for personal profit – doing what Mary did to Azhmenistan and however many other countries – and doing what Father and Dad do are completely unrelated. Still, she’s glad she didn’t actually see that part of it, see whether the bullets they fired (did they? Do they even have guns?) only injured the Akhmeni terrorists or killed them outright. That part of her innocence, at least, has been spared for the time being. 

“Where are we going?” she asks Father. 

“Here,” Father replies, stopping in front of Chris, who is clutching his leg and moaning in pain as an agent attempts to zip-tie his arms behind his back. Father looks at her again. “I just wondered if there was anything further you’d like to say before we arrest him,” he says solicitously. “Thought you might like to have the last word.” 

Dad appears on her other side. “Or we could just have him castrated,” he says, with uncharacteristic viciousness. “Sounds like it wouldn’t be much of a loss to womankind in general.” 

Rose can’t help it. Maybe it’s just overall hysteria, but she giggles, particularly as the hurt understanding dawns on Chris’s face. “No,” she tells Dad. “That won’t be necessary.” She gazes at Chris and strangely, the hate is gone again. Now she only feels sorry for him. “I’m sorry for what happened in your country,” she says steadily. “But you know that taking revenge on someone who had nothing to do with it is completely illogical and unfair. I thought you were better than that, for all the rest of your occasional insensitivity. I just don’t understand.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Chris gets out through gritted teeth. “Your mother killed Zamira. There is no revenge that would be enough for that act.”

Rose frowns. “That happened before you were even born. Was she related to you or something?”

“No,” Chris spits. “But I grew up in London because my city was destroyed. The survivors all fled. There has to be some accountability, somewhere. You’re all there was.” 

Rose shakes her head. “It doesn’t work that way, or I should hold you accountable for the dictator that ran your country before the revolution. I just can’t believe you staged that attack to force me to discover who my mother was, and to engineer me into bed. You’re a revolting human being and you weren’t worth my time.” She looks at Father and nods. 

He looks back over his shoulder and says, “All right, we’re finished with this one. Take him away.” He looks back at Chris and narrows his eyes. “And _don’t_ read my articles.” 

Two more agents come and they drag Chris off. Father and Dad put their arms around her and lead her away, turning their backs on him. As they emerge into the light of the afternoon outside, Rose finds herself shocked that it’s still daytime. There are a number of vans and SUVs there now, as well as a helicopter, but what catches her eyes is a tall, solitary figure leaning on an umbrella is waiting for them, standing a short distance from a black town car. Rose detaches herself from her fathers and runs to him, throwing her arms around him. Mycroft reacts in stunned surprise, but then his arms come around her back, a bit stiff, but patting her gently. “Thank you,” Rose says tightly, into his coat. 

“Always,” Mycroft tells her, his voice oddly soft. “That’s what I’m here for.” 

Rose lets go, wiping her eyes some more, and Dad goes next, hugging Mycroft, too, something she’s never witnessed before. Mycroft appears to be still more stunned by this, not hugging back but standing there with his arms dangling awkwardly, still clutching his umbrella. 

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Dad mutters, but it’s completely sincere and Mycroft clears his throat and says something unintelligible in return. 

Father and Mycroft exchange a long look of the silent communication they specialise in, but then Father says it, too. “Thank you,” he says, his voice particularly intense. “For the team. The helicopter. The speed of response.” 

Mycroft bows his head for a moment. “Always,” he repeats. He fixes his hazel gaze on Rose. “Are you all right? Apart from those cuts on your face.” 

“I’ll fix those,” Dad interjects quickly. 

Rose takes another deep, steadying breath, and nods. “Yes. I think so. Yes. Thanks to all of you.” 

“Sorry we were so slow,” Father says again. “We came as quickly as we could.” 

“You came,” Rose says firmly. “You charged in like the cavalry and saved the day. Saved _me_. That’s what counts.” 

“You’re alive,” Dad says, his voice strained. “ _That’s_ what counts.” 

“I’m upgrading your security status,” Mycroft informs her. “Provided you don’t mind.” 

Rose hesitates. “Let’s discuss it in a week or two,” she proposes. “But for now – all right.” 

Mycroft nods, then turns and gets back into the backseat of his car without another word. 

They watch him get driven away. “Do you believe in God, Rose?” Dad asks curiously, as they watch the car. 

She looks at him in confusion. “I think so,” she says. “Why?” 

Father exchanges a look with Dad, then says, “I think what he’s trying to say is that, whether or not you believe in any sort of deity, what you most definitely _can_ believe in and rely upon, is Mycroft. He will _always_ be watching.” 

“And, like God, judging,” Dad adds, grinning. “But I hope you feel a little better about why, now. It’s inescapable. He watches us just as much, you know. It comforts me tremendously to know that we’ve given him and his agents enough emotionally scarring material to make up for it, though.”

“One gets used to it,” Father says musingly. “Meanwhile: are you really all right?” 

“I am,” Rose tells him, more convincingly this time. “I really am.” She takes both their hands and squeezes them. “I must say, it’s pretty cool to see the two of you in action at last! Is this a typical day for you?” 

Dad looks at Father, then says heavily, “No, Rose. I mean – yes, sometimes, but – not when the victim is _you_. That’s not something I could ever get used to.” 

“That said, you did enormously well, though,” Father says unexpectedly. “You stayed calm right up until the end. You didn’t struggle or get yourself hurt any worse. There was nothing you could have done about the nylon rope, and you knew better than to try. You’re stronger than you think, my little _Rosa abyssinica_. I’m very proud of you. We both are.” 

Rose leans against him in relief. A desert rose, is what he just called her. In fact, _Rosa abyssinica_ originates somewhere near Akhmenistan. He’s a genius, but that’s nothing new. “Can we go home now?” she asks. She looks around and sees the helicopter, but the only cars there are the SUVs and vans of the agents inside. “Can we borrow one of these?” 

Dad grins. “Nah, I think we’ll take the helicopter,” he says, nodding at it with his chin. 

Rose looks at him in disbelief. “You’re not serious?” 

“Sure, why not?” Dad goes over and bangs on the door, and the pilot opens it and lets down a set of stairs. “All aboard!” 

Rose looks at Father, round-eyed, but he just gives her a small, confident smile. “Why not travel in style?” he says lazily. “The taxi fare from here would be ridiculous, anyway.” 

Rose laughs and walks with him to the helicopter. So this is the life they’ve been sheltering from her all this time, that helicopters and terrorists in abandoned power stations and gunfights barely faze either one of them. And then they come home and learn to spiralise courgettes for her and bicker over whose turn it is to take out the bins or do the washing up – and, lately, have long heart-to-heart chats with their daughter about her family history and love life. “You guys are amazing,” she says in gratitude as the helicopter lifts off and heads northwest over the Thames. “You really are.” 

“All part of the service,” Dad quips, but Father just gives her one of his long, slow, secret smiles. 

“Take us home,” he tells the pilot, then settles back beside her for the ride. 

*** 

“Pass me the basil,” Harry says to Dad. 

“I already gave it to you,” Dad grouses. “I don’t know what you’ve done with it all. There was a whole packet.” 

She snips back and Carolyn rolls her eyes at Rose and Father across the table where she’s chopping romaine. “Typical,” she says, and Father agrees. 

“Unfortunately, yes, but I’m hardly in a position to complain, given…” he looks pointedly over at the desk where Mycroft is seated, tapping at his laptop. 

Carolyn smiles and shrugs. “Family,” she says mildly. 

There are footsteps on the stairs. “That will be my parents,” Father says. 

Rose gets up and goes greet them, the door is wide open, as usual. There is much exclamation and hugging and Gran talking as quickly as Father does when he’s on about something or other, demanding questions without waiting for the answers. Granddad manages to slip by her to hold Rose tightly by the shoulders, his gentle blue eyes peering into hers. “You all right, lovely?” he asks, beneath the rest of the noise and Father’s answers to his mother’s many questions. 

She nods, squeezing his wrists. “Right as rain,” she says, borrowing one of his favourite expressions, and he beams at her. She turns to her grandmother, whose hands are overflowing. “What can I take, Gran?” 

Gran hands her a heavy bag. “Be a love and put that on the range, would you? It’s still hot. Mycroft, your oven is so ridiculously overcomplicated, it’s no wonder you never switch it on yourself.”

Granddad smiles at him. “We figured it out, eventually. Or your mother did, rather. We locked the door behind us,” he adds reassuringly. 

“I know; I’ve already checked the digital system,” Mycroft responds, sounding bored. He looks over and, seeing that his father is similarly laden, gets up and closes his laptop. “Let me take that wine. I’ll open it and let it breathe, shall I?” 

Rose goes to the stove and sets Gran’s roast down on a back element. This is fantastic; they don’t normally all get together at once like this, but this year they decided to make an occasion of her birthday. Given the events of last week, they were all suddenly anxious celebrate her birthday in style. Dad and Father worriedly checked that she wouldn’t rather do something with her friends, but she’s assured them that she’s seeing them, too, tomorrow night, and that the night of her actual birthday is absolutely on reserve for her family. Dad and Harry are still bickering over whatever they’re chopping at the counter, Carolyn is serenely composing an enormous Greek salad at the table, Mycroft is opening bottles of wine, Gran and Granddad are attempting to set food out on the table, weaving in and around everyone in the kitchen, and to her left, Father is bent over, peering into the depths of the fridge. It’s nice, all of it. 

And on top of that, she just got an email in the afternoon from a ‘C. Jacobs’ that read: 

_Hey,_

_Sorry for being a bit distant. I wasn’t sure how to react after Leah’s party and kind of got the impression that you didn’t want to talk to me, but maybe you did because I didn’t talk to you first. I’m not actually like whatever you must think of me from that party, no matter what people might think. I know what I must have seemed like, but I’m actually a bit shy. Anyway, I don’t know if you’re even into girls or whatever, but I just wanted to say happy birthday (Leah told me it’s today), and that if you’ve got a spot of time to get a coffee tomorrow afternoon, it’s on me. Just if you want, no pressure. They’ve invited me to your party tomorrow but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if you’d rather I weren’t there. No hard feelings either way. I also heard that something bad happened to you last week, but no one seems to know anything specific about it. I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re all right. Anyway, my number’s just below. Text me if you’re free tomorrow/if you want to meet up. Again, no pressure._

_Cairo xo_

Rose’s heart lifted, reading it. She’s still not sure about what she thinks of herself for being happy about it, what it says about who she is, but for the time being she thinks she’ll try to take Dad’s message about not worrying about defining herself too specifically just yet. She definitely thought that Cairo had thought nothing of their little hook-up at the party, not that she was worrying about Rose’s side of their non-communication ever since. She had no idea that Cairo might want to see her again. Even date her, possibly? 

Dad hands her a glass. “Wine?” he offers. “It’s a very fine vintage of something white. There’s red, too, if you prefer.” He grins; his lack of wine knowledge has been a long-running family joke. 

“White is great,” she says, and he kisses her on the cheek and goes to pour Harry a glass of sparkling non-alcoholic cider. Maybe she should text Cairo now, before she forgets. She sets her glass down and takes out her phone, entering Cairo’s number, then typing, _Coffee tomorrow would be great, if you’re still free. There’s that cute little bakery close to the campus. Meet me there at 2?_ She takes a deep breath, then presses send, looking over at Carolyn, who is attempting to engage Mycroft in conversation. She wonders if Harry and Carolyn know that they’re likely also under his constant watch. Probably not, she thinks. Dad’s idea of her sitting down with Carolyn to have a long talk about bisexuality is a good one. Perhaps before they leave, she’ll find a moment to arrange a time with Carolyn for just that. 

Dad, meanwhile, is clearing his throat and calling for attention. “I think we’re just about ready to eat,” he says. “Before we do, I’d like us to raise our glasses to the birthday girl. To Rose!” 

They echo him and everyone clinks glasses, hers in particular. Father comes over with a bouquet of roses in his arms. They aren’t typical, long-stemmed roses, though: they’re another breed altogether, a tea rose of some sort, pale pink with big, open heads, multiples on each stem. He lays them in her arms with a smile. “For you, daughter mine.”

Their scent is heady and very sweet, sweeter than long-stemmed roses. Rose lifts them to her face and drinks it in, admiring the lavish blooms. “Thanks, Father. What are they?” 

“ _Rosa felicia_ , a hybrid musk rose,” Father tells her. “Hence the particularly fragrant blooms.”

“They’re beautiful,” she tells him. “You must have special-ordered them; no shop around London would just have these on hand!” 

Father smiles modestly. “One does what one must.” He clinks his glass to hers. “Happy birthday.” 

Rose feels her heart brimming over. Dad resumes, explaining how they’re all going to serve themselves and eat at the big table set up in the sitting room (the one in the kitchen never would have sufficed for all eight of them) and how it’s all going to work, and then everyone starts moving about, finding plates and silverware and collecting their food. 

Father stays where he is at her side for a moment, joining her in watching the rest of them. “So, are you?” he asks, nodding at the roses. “I’ll get a vase for those in a moment,” he adds as an afterthought. 

“Am I – ? Oh.” Rose looks down at the flowers in her arms again. _Rosa felicia_ , she thinks. _Happy rose_. She begins to smile. “Yes,” she tells him simply. “I am.” 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Akhmenistan and its capital city of Chirbalik are, clearly, made-up places. The language and names references, however, are Uzbek in origin.
> 
> Additionally, the piece of music Sherlock references at one point is quite beautiful and if you'd like to give it a listen, it's Benjamin Britten's _Hymn to the Virgin_ and you can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Z0O8X26UIU


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